A Road Paved In Gold
by Nadin4400
Summary: Steve Trevor doesn't die in the sky in Belgium, but survival comes with the price he couldn't ever imagine. Angst. Wondertrev, Post-movie
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:** Okay, so... I was playing with this idea for a while until I had no other choice but to put it into words. Not sure how long this story will be, but I have 2 chapters done and 2 more planned out, so more than 4, for now. Hopefully they'll be a fun ride!

Since this is an AU story, please excuse the DCEU canon deviations. Also my knowledge of Greek mythology may not be particularly deep. But hey, AU! I'm doing my best :)

* * *

 _You were my beacon of salvation,_  
 _I was your starlight_

 _\- "Cradled in Love" by Poets Of The Fall_

xoox

 _Antiope pushed the doors to her sister's chambers open without so much a knock and strode in, printing each step on the stone floor – a privilege very few were granted._

 _Hippolyta didn't even turn around, only her shoulders stiffened slightly in acknowledgement on the intrusion as her eyes remained fixed on the fire in the hearth, the flames reflecting in her diadem and making it look like it was pulsing with light._

 _"I know what you are going to say," she said before Antiope so much as opened her mouth._

 _Her sister stopped in her tracks and nodded, seemingly pleased. "Good. Then I won't have to repeat myself."_

 _Hippolyta turned around abruptly, her eyes blazing with anger and her voice strained with emotion that was normally hidden behind her careful composure, and the flicker of something as vulnerable as fear nearly stripped her of her regal veneer. "You had no right to go against my will!"_

 _Antiope tipped her chin up. "She has the right to learn to defend herself."_

 _"She is only a child and that is not your decision to make, Antiope! She is my daughter!"_

 _"She is more than that," Antiope interjected, and Hippolyta flinched as if she was sapped. "You think that keeping her in the dark will stop the prophecy from happening? What if it does and she is not ready?"_

 _Hippolyta's face hardened. "What if it doesn't?" She challenged her sister. "What if it never comes true? A vessel from the sky is supposed to take her away. What does it mean, Antiope?"_

 _"All the more reason for her to be ready. You can't keep her sheltered from the world forever." Antiope stared at her sister, her jaw set taut and her gaze hard, uncompromising. They'd been here before, countless times. Ever since Zeus made his wishes clear, mapping out Diana's fate at his will. They could ignore it as much as they wanted – Hippolyta could keep her eyes closed and look the other way al she pleased – but doing so was not going to make it go away. "She is meant for great things, Hippolyta."_

 _The queen pursed her lips together, regarding her sister sternly, one will against another. There was no winning here, they both knew it. One way or another, Diana would have to learn the hard ways of the world, be it through battle or through leaving this place, the only one she'd ever called home. She would lose her daughter one way or another, and there was no compromising here, only heartbreak._

 _"I am not going to let anyone take her away."_

 _"This may not be your decision, sister," Antiope shook her head, her voice filled with wistfulness._

 _Hippolyta pursed her lips into a hard thin line, and then she nodded curtly, her voice clipped when she spoke._

 _"Then you should make her the best."_

 _It wasn't until she saw a smoking plane tearing through the sky and plummeting into the ocean, not until she saw her daughter dive into the turquoise waters without so much as a second thought, not until she was awoken deep in the night by the guards claiming that Diana freed their prisoner and was leaving with him that she realized how wrong she was about the prophecy all along. Until then, Hippolyta was hoping against all hope and praying every day for Zeus's words to be a mistake. She should have known better than to believe that._

 _Diana didn't need to be inside the vessel for it to take her away, and there was nothing Hippolyta could do about it. Never could. There was no protecting her from her fate._

 _She only wished she knew it sooner._

 **Chapter 1**

 **1918**

It was a lie, after all. Your life didn't flash before your eyes when you died. Instead, the time stopped.

Steve heard the gas capsules explode, one after another after another, dull pops filling the cabin of the airplane as the heat started to grow, licking at his skin, the fire glowing so bright it was unbearable even with his eyes shut as his mind plunged into this nowhere place made of nothingness.

Instead of his happy moments and regrets, the memories filled with laughter and those stained with blood, all he could see was Diana's eyes locked with his, her lips curled into a soft smile, and the soft husk of her voice wrapped around him like a blanket. He could feel her hands on his cheeks, framing his face, could taste her smile, the sound of his name sending ripple after ripple of shiver through his body, and it was not enough, never enough. His chest grew tight as if his heart was about to explode, seemingly too large for his ribcage, too heavy with tenderness and fear and longing and wanting for so much more. They both deserved more.

"NOOOOOO!"

The scream broke through the explosion, registering with Steve, loud and pained, and almost as much on outside of his mind as it was inside it - her voice – as the force of decompression lurched him forward, the cool air of the night touching his clothes, his skin, before went up in flames.

Too late…

There were things in his life that Steve wished he didn't do, the things he wished he'd done differently, his existence like a patch quilt of memories he wished to hold on to and those that he'd rather let go. He was more than the uniform and his skills and the bravery he couldn't always comprehend, scared of going too deep into the whys and the hows for fear of never finding his way back.

Another pop, and he was completely engulfed in fire, not feeling it so much as knowing that it was there, too bright to look at, too hot, too final. It was burning away everything that he was, everything that he wanted to be, and… please let me live, let this not be the end.

And then he was falling, so fast it was giving him vertigo. His stomach flopped down and then lodged itself in his throat, making it impossible to breathe.

In the air force, when he was only trying his hand with the planes, he and his buddies would sometimes take the training planes afterhours and soar into the sky, doing loops and eights and barrels until they could no longer tell the up and the down apart, until their hearts were hammering and their blood flowing, and the world was at their fingertips, tiny and yet so fast he couldn't breathe at the sight of endless fields and skies streaked with wispy clouds.

He was having the same sensation now, the thrill of free-falling, his mind comfortably empty. If he could flow like this for all of eternity, free from the weight of the world, he could be happy, he decided. Completely and utterly free.

And then…

…everything…

…stopped.

Steve opened his eyes and peered into the grey November sky hanging low over the trees, their branches scraping against the clouds that promised more snow later on, undoubtedly. He blinked, blinded by the brightness of the day even though the sun was nowhere to be seen, disoriented and dizzy, grateful to be feeling the carpet of dead leaves beneath his body, the world spinning backward around him.

He probably had a concussion, he figured wincing. His head throbbed and each breath resonated painfully somewhere deep inside him. Broken ribs, most likely. Cracked at the very least. He tried to move in an attempt to assess the damage. Nothing appeared to be broken, to his relief, although a concussion wasn't out of question – even thinking of getting on his feet nearly made him pass out, black dots dancing before his eyes and his brain seemingly too big for his skull.

Steve rolled onto his side, hissing when his body protested against the move, and fairly certain he was going to throw up - so nauseous it made him. He took a deep breath, and then another one, inhaling the pungent scent of cold soil and forest, until his stomach settled and his head stopped spinning. Pushed up slowly, mindful of the sickening sensation as his ribs grated against each other.

He'd had it worse before, Steve thought absently. He'd been shot, so at least he was not in any risk of bleeding out to death, but bloody hell did it hurt.

Wincing, he pushed up to sit, his heart skipping a beat or two with effort.

And with that, the memories came rushing back. The German base. Ludendorff. The gas.

Diana.

He looked wildly around, the woods creeping in on him, dark and ominous. There was no break between the trees, no indication of where he was or where he should be going to get back to… to the people, he figured. Another village. Anything. Without the sun, it was hard to tell what time it was, how many hours had passed since—

His thoughts skidded to an abrupt halt.

He remembered pulling the trigger, remembered the explosions and the fire licking at his skin-

The ground swayed beneath him when he pulled himself up, holding on to the trunk of a tree, fingers grazing against the rough bark, almost painfully raw against his skin. Legs weak and knees unsteady, threatening to give in beneath him, the weight of his body too much for them to carry, Steve leaned heavily against an old oak, bare this late in the autumn, gulping the air hungrily like he might run out of it, his chest tight as though he'd spent too much time underwater.

He needed to get out of here. It was cold, his body shaking from the chill snaking under his clothes and what Steve suspected was shock, if he had to put a label on it. His head was pounding, and when he touched his forehead, his fingers came away smeared with blood from the cut somewhere below his hairline, the metallic scent of it now permeating his senses. He needed to find out what happened.

And most importantly, he needed to make sure that everyone else was safe.

xoox

"Don't do it, Diana," Charlie's voice was soft, laced with sorrow, his accent so much more prominent in grief. "Don't go there."

She chose to pretend not to hear him, her mind blank and her body moving on autopilot.

"Let her," Chief shook his head, his eyes never leaving the back of her head – she could feel it almost like a touch, and it wasn't the first time since they met that she wondered if he could see inside her mind. "A closure goes a long way."

She didn't listen to the rest of it.

Once the smoke started to settle, once the people began to shake off the stunned stupor over what had happened, she grabbed one of the horses and headed in the direction of the bright explosion she'd seen a few hours ago, the image seared in her memory like a scar, half knowing that the others would follow her, half not caring if they did.

Chief was wrong. There was no closure. Could be no closure. Not when it ended so abruptly, so unjustly, so unfairly soon. She didn't even get to say goodbye, and now her chest was aching with so much grief and devastation she didn't know how it was possible for one body to contain it without exploding or folding in on itself until it ceased to exist. With every step, every move, every spoken word, Diana feared she would tear at the seams and the pain and agony simmering inside her would spill out and consume the lands around her.

It was early still, her breath puffing out in small clouds as she moved first in a trot and then in gallop once they left the base behind, speeding up along the narrow road.

It was awfully ironic, really, how there was nothing that could have prepared her for this moment. She could be lethal, she could destroy the root of all evil, but nothing in all those years of training taught her that there was no shield that could protect her heart from breaking, no sword that could deflect the blow that shattered her very soul into a million pieces. No one ever told her that the invisible wounds hurt the most, and how was supposed to go on when there was no force in this world or any other to mend what broke inside her when that plane blew up?

Diana's hands clenched on the reins, her mind spiraling into the abyss.

Who knew that regret and remorse could be so bitter and angry, bubbling up in her chest, nearly boiling over the rim?

The first piece of the aircraft that she saw was a part of a wing, charred from the fire, its torn edges sharp and jagged like a row of bared teeth. There was another shred of metal about a hundred feet from her, near the tree line, and something black scattered around. The air smelled of burned rubber and something else, something acrid that tasted foul on her tongue. And it was so quiet, so awfully quiet…

Diana pulled at the reins, and the horse turned in a semi-circle, jerking its head up and down, its breath puffing out of its flaring nostrils, confused by the abrupt stop. In her haste to get here, she didn't think of how the explosion had probably scattered whatever was left of the airplane for miles around.

Her breath hitched in her throat, her eyes prickling, and in that moment, it was so easy to write it off to the cold and fatigue and not the fact that her very essence was shattering before her eyes.

"Steve!"

His name scattered across the valley, echoing in the distant hills, slashing her eardrums – a pained, desperate sound that carried the weight of the ache burning in her chest and making it hard to breathe, and it took her a moment or two to realize that it was she who was calling for him as if it could miraculously summon him back to life.

There were lessons, Antiope told her countless times, that one couldn't learn from someone else; that she needed to learn for herself. Diana always assumed that it was about her training, finessing the fighting techniques. It made sense to her then – no one else could learn to deflect the blows and perfect her strikes for her. However, right now Antiope's words gained a whole new meaning, pressing down on her like with the full weight of loss that could so easily grind her into dust if it so pleased. How much easier it was to live in the world that was more black and white rather than tinted in shades of grey…

No one told her that losing the people she loved was not the worst thing – the worst thing was being alive when they were gone and carrying the burden of emptiness inside her, something black that threatened to turn her inside out.

She dismounted the horse, feet hitting a patch of frozen, brown grass, and turned around, eyes taking in the clearing and the hills rising behind the forest, and it occurred to her for the first time that he could have evaporated in the blast, and this realization sent a jolt of anguish so sharp through her it nearly left her keeling, hand still closed around a fistful of the reins as her horse reared back, frightened by the raw emotion radiating off of Diana.

In the folds of her cloak, she found the watch, gripping it tightly, struggling to breathe past the burning lump in her throat.

"There's more."

The voice didn't surprise her, however looking up and finding Sameer look at her with profound sadness felt almost like an intrusion, which made her look glance quickly in guilt. She was not the only one who lost Steve, her pain was not stronger just because it was hers. The only difference was that she could have saved him, if only he'd let her; if only they had more time.

She turned to Sameer again, followed his gaze with her own toward another cluster of trees that apparently held more pieces of her fractured life, and nodded numbly, uncertain as to why she was so drawn to come here at all – it wasn't like she could put them back together like nothing happened. This was the one thing, it seemed, that she was not capable of.

Charlie slid timidly to the ground, mindful of his horse's temper, his features streaked with soot and lined with bone-deep weariness.

The Germans surrendered, but the war, Diana thought, would take some time to leave them all be.

She started toward the trees that Sameer pointed to, desperate to find something, anything. A piece of fabric maybe, a button from the uniform Steve was wearing under his heavy winter coat. A proof that she didn't make him up – it was like a burning inside her, the need to close her hand around something tangible that was a part of him, even if it killed her all over again. If she stopped, she thought she might disintegrate.

"Diana." Chief's voice stopped her in her tracks, not so much her name as the chocked tone of his voice. Like something punched him in the chest. "Look."

She glanced up, at him still in the saddle, his profile sharp against the grey sky, and then toward the trees lining the far end of the clearing, half-swallowed in the fog.

And there—

The ground shifted beneath her, her breath wheezing out of her body.

She blinked and staggered forward, straining her eyes. Because it couldn't be. It couldn't be—

"Is that…" Charlie left the end of the sentence hanging.

Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he never stopped speaking, but she didn't hear the rest. Diana took another step forward. And then another one. And then she was running across the field before he disappeared, the nippy air biting at her cheeks and her lungs burning. Her cloak fell from her shoulders to the frozen ground in a shapeless heap, black on grey, without her noticing. And it still was not fast enough. So not enough.

xoox

It was a little known fact, and the biggest misfortune, that it was next to impossible to move in a straight line without a landmark or a compass, and Steve's pockets were empty. His gun must have fallen out of his hand when he pulled the trigger, his compass most likely lost in a battle earlier in the day. He didn't know how long he was walking, cold and dizzy and completely disoriented, the time blurring at the edges. Probably not more than half an hour, his exhaustion starting to settle in like a heavy stone pressing on his chest.

And so when the trees finally gave way and spat him out onto the field where even the air felt different somehow, lighter in the way he couldn't explain, he was tempted to believe that it was a trick of his imagination.

He blinked, and there was a black horse on the other end of the valley. Blinked again, and three more joined it. Steve leaned heavily against the tree, his chest heaving and his laboured breathing and blood rush in his ears muting the forest around him.

So tired.

If only he could just—

And then someone rammed into him at full force, making him stagger and nearly fall backwards.

"Ow," he stiffened momentarily, his battered body protesting the unexpected assault and his bones screaming in agony, and his arms were suddenly full of Amazon goddess, his name whispered over and over again in his ear.

"I'm sorry," Diana muttered, but when she started to pull away, Steve tightened his hold of her, half in relief, half needing to do so lest he collapse.

"No," he muttered and buried his face in her hair that smelled of smoke and earth and the salty air of Themyscira, and in that moment, he feared that if he let go of her for a split second, he'd fall apart. Like she was the only force keeping him in one piece.

"Steve…" She whispered again, pulling away just far enough to look in his face, her fingers touching his cheek, his brow ever so gently, pushing his hair back from his forehead, her eyes gleaming and her lips quivering like she didn't know whether to smile or cry. Steve certainly could relate to that. "But how…"

"I don't know," he rasped, their eyes meeting and his gaze holding hers. An anchor and the only thing he wanted to see. "I really don't know, I-"

"You're here," she breathed out, disbelieving.

He dropped his forehead against hers, his heart beating somewhere in his throat.

"And you found me again." He brushed her hair from her cheek, and she laughed through tears – a short, surprised sound, happiness mixing with fear. Something he was way too familiar with, half certain that she was going to evaporate like a billow of smoke. "Look at that…"

She clutched the lapel of his jacket and dropped her forehead on the slope of his shoulder, her body shaking ever so slightly, and it would be easy to write it off to the late autumnal chill, but something told him that it wasn't the case. He kissed her hair, and the ground swayed beneath him, tiling sideways.

"Oh…"

Diana's arm slipped around his waist for support. "Lean on me," she looked up, her eyebrows creased with concern, but all he could see was the impossible beauty that made his heart stutter for all the right reasons, concussion and whatever the hell was broken inside him be damned. To see that face again, he'd fall from the sky a thousand times over if her had to. He'd keep falling for as long as he lived, if she so wished.

Still, the haze in his mind was troubling, and Steve's fingers flexed on the soft leather of her armour as he held on, hugging her tight against him and hoping against all hope that he wouldn't plant his face in the ground in front of the girl he liked (woman he loved, but that was beyond the point). There was only so much embarrassment a guy could handle in a short span of time. God knew, they'd have another chance for that. Certainly a better setting than the freezing woods in the middle of nowhere in Belgium. He could do better than that.

"Steven," Chief's voice was relieved and breaking a little with something that could be so easily mistaken for affection when the rest of the group caught up with them, Diana's horse tied to his saddle, and while Sameer was grinning for all he was worth, Charlie politely looked away as if he walked in on something private, a wistful smile on his lips. Breathing hurt, thinking hurt even more, and moving was agonizing, but he'd never felt more alive, and somehow, it was the only thing that mattered.

xoox

Another nameless village, another cramped inn, a smudge in his memory between being practically hoisted up on a horse behind Diana (and her soft, Hold onto me) and walking through this door.

Stripped down to his pants, he was sitting on the edge of the bed while Diana prodded and poked at him, armed with a bag of something she'd gotten from Chief, the one with herbs and balms and whatever passed for medical care when there wasn't a single field hospital for miles around them, his I'm fine protests promptly ignored. And really, who would go against a princess of Amazons? He figured it was akin trying to stop an oncoming train with just his bare hands.

In addition to cracked ribs – cracked, not broke, although for Steve, it didn't make that much of a difference, seeing as how the discomfort was the same – he ended up with a messed up shoulder that apparently got this close to being dislocated. Diana pressed a cloth soaked in cold water to an impressive-looking bruise that started to spread over the injured joint to stop the swelling; told him to hold it there as she pushed his hair back from the cut on his forehead, frowning slightly as she reached into the bag of Chief's magical tricks.

His mind had cleared a bit, his focus sharper than a few hours before, as sharp as it could be in a dark room on a gloomy afternoon – surprisingly the only place he wanted to be. The voices were drifting in from the dining room downstairs, the people celebrating the end of the nightmare their lives had turned into years ago. For real now, not a small thing they praised in Veld the other night – oh god, was it yesterday? No, two days ago. It was hard to keep track of time.

He could hear the singing, and the laughter, and the weight he had been carrying inside him started to lift off his shoulders.

Steve cursed under his breath when she touched a strong-smelling slave to his cut, pulling away instinctively.

"I'm sorry." Diana's palm curled over his cheek and she blew on the cut before her gaze dropped and locked with his. "I don't think any stitches are required."

Her shield was propped against the wall, black cloak draped over the back of the armchair in the corner. She'd told him what happened to the sword, how in the end, it was nothing, meant nothing, and her voice broke ever so slightly with the enormity of this revelation.

"You really did it, Diana," Steve said, his voice nothing but a whoosh of breath. "You saved the world."

Her hand dropped from his face and curled around his hand, a soothing thumb running over his scabbed and bruised knuckles. Head tilted slightly to her shoulder, she studied him for a long moment as though she'd never seen him before, a wondrous expression Steve Trevor had never been on the receiving end of, which left him with a tingling sensation in his chest.

"You did, Steve. The gas…" She trailed off, shook her head, and maybe he was the one with a head trauma, but Diana was obviously having as easy a time figuring out how they ended up here as he.

Steve opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. Not that a suicide mission could be compared to her killing an actual celestial being – the fact that everything she was telling him from the start was real still not quite registering fully – but it felt small and silly to keep the conversation going.

If there was one thing that the war had taught him, it was that no victory was a small victory, and what she did had by far dimmed the rest of their efforts. However, what made him bite his tongue in the end was knowing that she didn't do it for praise and honours and pretty words that didn't mean nearly as much as the tears of joy on the people's faces, the kind of gratitude that couldn't ever be expressed in words because such words simply didn't exist.

"Wait, I think there is something for this," Diana reached for Chief's supplies again, but he pulled his hand away from her and rose on his feet, reaching for his shirt that he couldn't remember taking off lying on the other side of the bed.

"It's just a scratch," he muttered, wincing his way into the sleeves. "Maybe, I should just…"

"Steve, what are you doing?" She followed him with her gaze, puzzled.

He ran his hand through his hair.

Bad idea.

His shoulder screamed in pain, and Steve hissed through his teeth, very aware of Diana's scrutiny, the confines of the room suddenly suffocating as the heaviness of unsaid words pressed down on them, squeezing the remnants of life out of him.

It was truly terrifying how loud the silence could be sometimes. In all his years as a pilot, Steve preferred the angry raging of gunfire to the stillness of the proverbial brewing storm. Silence, on the other hand, always left him unsettled, antsy, the need to fill the moments with the sounds of life so overwhelming it hurt. Right now, there were words tumbling in his head, rolling on the tip of his tongue – words he didn't know how to say because they made little sense even in his mind, the blurred memories that could be nothing but a figment of his imagination in the end.

"What you said in that village, after Ludendorff set off the demonstration…" He took in a sharp, shaky breath and finally met her eyes, a furrow of misunderstanding creasing her brows. "You were right. We were all the problem. I—I don't know if you'd have been able to stop it, to save those people but it was not my call to—to get in your way. They deserved that chance. And… after everything that happened, I wouldn't assume you'd want me to-"

"Stay." Lithe form and majestic grace, Diana uncurled from her sitting position, her expression confused and more than a little scared. One step toward him, and her hands winded into his hair, feather-light on his cheeks, so close and so real and everything he ever needed. "I thought you were gone," he whispered, tracing the line of his jaw, her voice breaking. "I thought I would never see you again. Thought I'd lost you."

"I'm sorry," he murmured, uncertain what he was apologizing for, exactly – getting into that plane, the borrowed time he took from them by making this decision, or for bringing her into his world at all. Knew she didn't know, either, and this thing between them felt wonderful and fragile, and he wanted nothing else but to freeze this moment in time and just be. "I'm so sorry, Diana. I…" he faltered, swallowed hard, his mouth dry all of a sudden.

She looked up, their eyes meeting again, and the sheer force of something behind her gaze all but knocked him off his feet. She wiped a tear from her cheek with her palm, her lips curved into a small relieved smile. "Stay."

xoox

It was the glare of the sun that awoke him the next morning, beaming on his face through thin curtains, a faint murmur of voices outside, and a nearly palpable gaze roaming over his features.

"You're staring," he murmured, his voice hoarse and thick with sleep.

"And you were snoring," Diana responded.

He cracked one eye open with as much indignation as the situation allowed to find her watching him with an amused glint in her eyes, her head propped on her hand. And in the morning light that tangled in her hair, painting it gold, she looked very much like an angel that pulled him out of the water… god, was it only a week ago? It felt like another lifetime.

"I was not," he protested nonetheless.

"Yes, you were," she shook her head, trying and failing not to grin. And added, "I noticed on the boat. And… that other night." Her eyebrow arched pointedly.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment before noting philosophically, "No one is perfect."

Diana laughed – the sound like sunshine that made his heart trip over itself and soar into the sky, and maybe this was death after all, because how else could he explain this moment, and her, and being so blissfully content it felt unfathomable? Like a dream he had a time or two since he met her, the one that he couldn't quite remember but that was still lingering in the back of his mind. Quite frankly, had it not been for the slight throb in the back of his head and an uncomfortable protest of his ribcage every time he inhaled, he'd be tempted to write this off to a delusion of some sort, too good to be real.

"You'll heal," she said – an observation, not an assumption – as her fingers left a ghost of a trail along his skin, touching softly the bruise on his shoulder and a crisscross pattern of scars on his chest, her eyes brimming with questions Steve knew they would come back eventually. Although not now, perhaps.

"That's the plan," he agreed, unable to suppress a shiver than ran through him.

"You're cold. Let me start a—" Diana began, completely misreading the situation and pulling away from him, but Steve caught her hand, kissed the back of her fingers, marveling in the feel of her smooth skin against his calloused palm, lean and delicate and deadly in so many ways. Certainly, unsafe for his heart.

"No, stay." He murmured, and then his eyebrows pulled together as he gave her a curious once-over. "What are you wearing?"

Diana glanced down at a wispy cotton nighty, wrapped around her frame, so thin it was negating the point of having anything on at all. Long sleeves that were a tad too short for her and strings at the collar that she left untied, revealing a glimpse of tanned flesh that completely derailed the train off his thought until it reached the end of the tracks and dove right off the cliff.

Her expression was puzzled for a flicker of a moment, hands reaching instinctively for the strings. "The innkeeper gave it to me," she said, looking up at him again. "Is this not what women wear to bed?"

Steve swallowed and cleared his throat. "No, it is. It really is."

"What?" She demanded, watching him struggle.

He chuckled and pulled her down to him, his fingers threading through her hair. "It looks good on you," he whispered as her lips brushed against his, allowing him to feel her smile. It was funny in that odd and surprising way that she'd never looked less like a lethal goddess than now, and if it was up to him, he'd have her wear nothing but this nighty – that Steve was fairly certain was in high fashion in his grandmother's times – for as long as they both lived.

"How hard did you hit your head?" She murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth.

"Tease." He turned his head, capturing her mouth, his pulse stuttering for a moment and then sprinting into a race as her fingers thrummed along his neck.

"You scared me," she murmured, a frantic edge in her voice.

"I'm sorry."

He shifted, drawing her closer, warm and real and—

Wrong move. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

With a groan, he gripped a handful of Diana's nightie and pressed his face into her neck when his body resisted the idea, cursing it mentally, although not that surprised – he tumbled from the sky not a day ago. It was a miracle he wasn't paralyzed. (It was a miracle he wasn't dead, for that matter.) Not being ready to move on to the best parts yet was probably the least of his issues.

"I'm probably going to be out of commission for a while," he muttered, kissing along her jaw.

Diana's palm found his cheek, a thumb running over his prickly stubble, her face so close he could feel the flutter of her eyelashes on his skin. He could probably spend the rest of his life in this moment and nothing would be better. "You're here." And somehow, in the madness he found himself in, this was the only thing that made sense. "I have something that's yours."

The static in his mind cleared a bit when she reached for the nightstand and picked up something that, upon closer inspection, turned out being his watch. The very same one that he pressed into her hands before all hell broke loose.

His dad gave it to him when Steve was 12, saying that the time was the most precious gift, and that it was Steve's duty to make sure to find some for the things that really mattered, no matter what. For years, he didn't think much of those words, treasuring the watch as a precious gift he knew meant a lot to his old man. A gift for his service – no wonder Steve followed in his footsteps. It was funny how some things took a while to truly gain their full meaning, and the importance of time was no exception from the rule. Ironically, he hadn't realized it until he had none left, and the memory of the night that he believed would be his last one left him with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

And a twinge of guilt, too. This watch has been his most prized possession for as long as Steve remembered himself, the one that he kept intact and running all through his training and his missions and that one time he nearly lost his very soul at poker, and he probably wouldn't have even thought about it if Diana wasn't holding it in front of his face. Speak of priorities….

He started at it for a long moment, the hands frozen, the gears silent. He'd never not heard it before.

"Would you hold on to it for me?" He asked her, even though his eyes hadn't moved from the object in her hand.

"But it's your father's," Diana protested.

"Not for good, just for a while." He reached over to tuck a strand of tousled hair behind her ear, having a very distinctive feeling that they were no longer talking about the watch. "I think you'd take good care of it."

"You are a very stranger man, Steve Trevor."

She scooted closer to him, lowered her head down on his pillow, their temples touching, her eyes studying the pale face, the thin hands, the leather of the strap so worn out it was as soft as a piece of fabric, albeit strong and resilient as ever.

He chucked, his own gaze never leaving her regal profile – the line of her nose that seemingly came straight from some ancient Greek painting, a tinge of colour on her high cheekbones, a delicate curve of her lips moving soundlessly as she read the engraving on the back.

"Tell me something I don't know," he breathed out, more to himself than to her. "Here, let me…"

Steve took the watch from her and fastened it on Diana's wrist. It was too bulky for her, too big and slightly loose, and undoubtedly inconvenient with her wrist guards that were currently tossed on the table in the corner. He didn't expect her to wear it, but there was something impossibly mesmerizing about seeing these two different worlds collide in a way.

She turned her wrist this way and that, testing the weight and the feel of the watch.

"It stopped."

"I can fix that." In Steve's memory, the seconds, and minutes, and the hours of that day blurred into one endless moment of aching uncertainty and bone-chilling fear, but if his calculations were correct, his watch stopped ticking at the exact moment when his plane had gone up in flames. A constant reminder that he was equally tempted to keep and to erase it for fear of being held back by it for the rest of his life. "I think I can."

Diana looked up at him. "It's really over," she said, pensive. "No more wars left to fight."

And what a weird concept it was, Steve thought. Through all the fighting and trying and the sacrifices, deep down he was starting to lose hope. He could hardly remember the world before the war, the fragments of his life feeble and faded, somewhat out of his reach.

"From where I'm standing, it's a good thing," he noted.

"It is." A pause. "So what do we do now?"

The question almost caught him off-guard. No longer used to seeing past one day at a time, when tomorrow was hidden in the fog and the future was obscured and uncertain, he'd long forgotten how to dream of more.

Steve ran the back of his fingers over her cheek, his mind instantly flooded with a thousand things he didn't dare think of for so long. "Anything. Anything we want."

 **To be continued...**

* * *

 **A/N:** I was meaning to make it angsty straight away, but all deserve some fluff before everything goes south.

Feedback is always much appreciated! :))


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note:** It wasn't meant to take me a month to update it, sorry! I was a bit caught up on writing pt.3 to post this one. Oooops! I'll do my best to keep updates more regular :) Also thank you so very much for the overwhelming feedback on the first part! You guys rock! Hope you'll enjoy the rest of it as much :)

* * *

The healing was slow, his bones taking their sweet time to grow back together and his cuts and bruises lingering as a reminder of the last battle that changed the course of history and turned his life upside down, although not necessarily in that order. Steve had no answers still, and no one to ask the questions crowding his mind. Chief told him that the pieces of his plane were scattered over several square miles of fields and forests. He was not wearing a parachute. He was stark in the epicenter of an explosion that, had it happened on the ground, would have killed everything in a dozen-mile radius. He should have _evaporated_ , and there was no logic and science to explain why he was still breathing.

More often than not, Steve chose not to think about it.

There were questions, after all, the answers to which were better left unknown. Not that it would have made any difference, he mused. Knowing wouldn't change anything, and he wasn't sure if it would give him the peace of mind he was seeking or not. Perhaps, there were better ways to find it. If maybe he gave it a try.

They returned to London a week later, the world still in the midst of celebrating the victory of all victories, and if the fall from the sky hadn't broken all of his bones, Etta's enthusiastic embrace when she met them at the train station nearly had.

"You are here!" She fussed, squeezing the life out of Steve and completely ignoring the crowds milling around them. "And you are _alive_!"

Standing next to them, Diana bit her lip, trying to hold back a smile, amused beyond measure.

 _You're next_ , Steve mouthed to her over Etta's shoulder, wincing but making no attempt to pull away. God knew they all deserved a moment of happiness after everything they'd been through, even though he wasn't sure why Etta's was about strangling him.

And like on cue, his secretary let go of him and pulled Diana into a bear hug, the one that Diana didn't resist – Steve's breath catching at the sight of affection on Etta's face. Perhaps he could relate to it all too well. And then he proceeded to ignore her knowing looks and raised eyebrows and not so subtle comments that reminded him that there was probably things too obvious to the side observers that no amount of trying could hide, the slight shift in body language between him and Diana as much on display as the sun shining high up in the sky.

No wonder Sameer was rolling his eyes the whole time and Charlie proceeded to blush profusely.

He chuckled under his breath, covering it with a cough as Diana untangled herself from Etta and they finally followed her toward the cabs lining the street through the peals of laughter and happy tears and the relief so palpable in the air it felt like blanket covering the city. It still felt surreal, like a dream he didn't want to wake up from.

xoox

On the first day of winter, he took Diana down to the seaside, the fresh ocean air a nice change from the ever-present smog of London. The day was sunny, the sky bright-blue above them even though the wind blowing from the Atlantic Ocean was nothing but merciless, biting at their cheeks and pulling Diana's hair out of a twist at the nape of her neck. She didn't seem to mind.

They bought ice-cream from a street cart ( _They have more flavors than one, you know_ ) and the look of utter bliss on her face, so pure and radiant it all but blinded him, made Steve want to get her an entire parlour just so that this joy would never leave.

"Mankind is not perfect, but this? This is worth everything," Diana mumbled around a mouthful of strawberry goodness, eyes closed.

And her smile was so majestic he wanted to take a picture of it and carry it with him. Wanted to capture it in time and make it last for as long as he breathed.

Steve shook his head. "I'm glad you got your priorities figured out."

He touched his chocolate cone to her nose, making Diana squirm away from him, then leaned in to kiss it clean before planting another kiss on her lips. God, he'd never loved her more.

Tucked away from the crowds of Brighton and this late in the year, the town of Hastings was a refreshing change of pace, nearly empty and so damn peaceful Steve could hardly believe it was real. They strolled through the ruins of an old castle, perched above the sleepy streets, the half-collapsed walls and turrets sticking from the ground like sharp, jagged teeth, vacant but for the two of them. And if the morning traffic was any indication, the rest of the town was probably in London, celebrating at long last.

He watched Diana regard the remnants of what used to be a palace and a fortress in the time when she was still a child with pensive apprehension, her finger brushing against the weathered rock here and there as if she was trying to find a physical connection to the era and the people long gone, read the history as if it was written in braille, seemingly oblivious to the harsh gusts of wind, snaking through the ruins. He wanted – _so badly_ – to see what she was seeing.

Her wrist gauntlets were peeking from under the sleeves of her wool coat, and Steve knew without a doubt that there was probably a knife hidden somewhere on her body – old habits died hard and he, of all people, knew it pretty damn well – but this was perhaps the second time since they met that Diana didn't have her shield or her armour within an arm's reach, and he wondered if she felt the difference. This, more than anything, was perhaps the surest sign of how they were truly heading toward peace.

They strode down toward the beach then, greeted by the roar of the ocean and the cries of the seagulls, soaring over the surf, wet sand sinking beneath the soles of their boots. He took her hand and Diana laced her fingers through his. She turned to him, squinting a bit against the sun and the wind, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"We're together like _that_ now, yes?" She inquired, an eyebrow raised.

Steve laughed and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek with his hand. "Damn straight, we are."

Ever since he woke up somewhere in Belgium on the morning after the war was done and over with, he was expecting her to bring up going back to Themyscira, her homesickness always like an undercurrent of energy around her, each mention of her home island laced with wistful longing. Had she decided to do so, he knew he wouldn't blame her, and knew he wouldn't try to stop her. Maybe this world was worth saving, at least on some level, but it didn't deserve her. That much Steve knew for sure.

However, he never asked, and Diana never brought it up, and foolishly, selfishly, he hoped against all hope that he was enough for her to stay, that he was _enough_ , period. If maybe they never spoke about it, she wouldn't want to leave. And he hated himself for it, just a little bit, an embodiment of everything that was wrong with his kind. And he also knew he couldn't possibly feel otherwise for he wished so fiercely to give them a chance at something he couldn't put into words just yet that he'd fight all gods to make it happen, just as he knew he'd follow her to the end of the Earth if he had to.

If she let him.

Later, in the small room Steve rented for the night so as to avoid the hassle of London for a few more hours, she shrugged off her jacket and rubbed her hands together to warm them up after their chilly walk, her cheeks flushed from the wind and her gaze going to the window overlooking the cliffs and the water below now and then. And Steve wondered not for the first time if she was seeing the beach she grew up on, the grey of the North Atlantic replaced in her mind with the bright turquoise of the sea guarding her 'paradise island'.

He watched her lean fingers pull the pins out of her hair, allowing it to fall down her shoulders in a cascade of black curls, and maybe there was something to that theory than men weren't inherently multitaskers because in that moment, he could think of one thing and one thing only.

Diana turned to him, the late afternoon sun tangled in her wild mane, making it glow like a halo, a ghost of a smile on her lips, and he was very much aware of staring her like a complete moron as he tried to come up with words. Any words, really. _Nice day, don't you think? Where would you like to go for dinner?_ He was a grown man, for heaven's sake, not an awkward teenager. Surely, he could do better than that.

However, his mind was blank, filled with white static like an empty radio station, and when she stepped toward him, her hands pushing into his hair, the only thing he could think to do – the only thing he could _do_ – was kiss her, urgently, hungrily, like there still was gunfire raging outside their window, counting down the moments they had left.

"Captain Trevor," she murmured against his mouth not without a trace of amusement, "are you not out of commission anymore?"

Steve drew back, panting, the world spinning so fast around him he didn't know how to keep up. Rested his forehead against hers, his fingers flexing ever so subtly on her sides. "No, ma'am."

Languid and soft in his arms, and so very real, Diana pushed her hands under the collar of his shirt and around his neck, long fingers gripping the hair on the back of his head while he fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. (Jesus, why were there so _many_ of them?!)

His fingers brushed against the lace bodice of her corset.

"Huh, this is…"

"Fashion," Diana breathed out, and added, "It's awfully uncomfortable."

Steve's lips quirked. "Well, then we should… ah, fix that."

His mouth latched on her jaw and moving toward the sensitive spot behind her ear as his fingers tugged at the thin strings keeping the tight garment in place, unlacing it without much grace.

"This thing is a crime against humanity," he muttered softly.

Diana laughed, his face caught between her palms as she kissed the corner of his mouth, her hands sliding to his shoulders to push his shirt down his arms, her nimble fingers sliding under his undershirt and pushing it up and over his head, a giggle rising in her throat at the sight of his rumpled hair, tamped down by the sheer force of need in his eyes.

And suddenly nothing was funny anymore…

"Diana…" He name slipped from his lips like a prayer.

The corset fell to the floor, followed by the thinnest undergarment she was wearing with it, her hands unbuckling his belt and making the edges of reality blur before Steve's eyes, and then he was spreading her on the sheets, the fading sunlight making her olive skin glow golden.

Naked Diana in his arms was everything, the touch of her hands sending sparks along his skin, shooting all the way through him. He kissed her, deeply and thoroughly, searing the texture and taste of her mouth in his memory for eternity and every lifetime to come.

"Let me…" He whispered when she tried to pull him to her, his mouth trailing a path along down her throat and along her collarbone, slow, deliberate kisses. His lips closed around a rosy peak of her breast as his thumb brushed over the other one. Diana's breath caught, a soft sound forming into a moan that send his mind spiralling into a place where she was the center of the entire universe. "You're wonderful," he whispered between the pecks, his hand skimming over her belly and slipping between her thighs, those two weeks he spent barely touching her suddenly impossibly long. "So beautiful…"

He could spend the rest of his life mapping her body with his lips and it would still not be enough.

A hand of her hip, he pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh, making Diana go still, his own body humming with the need and want and something deep and primal. He glanced up to see her eyes drop shut in surrender and acceptance, ready to drown in pleasure, his own pulse stuttering in response, urging him forward. Her hand curled around a fistful of sheets and the other gripped his hair when Steve's mouth found the sweet spot, her back arching instinctively to accommodate his touch.

Hot swipe of his tongue conjured a breathless, _Please_ – a demand, rather than a plea, and his thoughts evaporated in an instant, leaving nothing but shiny delight behind.

A low growl of approval formed in the back of his throat when she guided him where she wanted him most. "Steve…"

He felt her body tense. _Close_.

Earning a sound of protest, Steve pulled back, punctuating his way up her belly and sternum with hasty kisses until his mouth found hers again, his hand curling around her wrist and pinning it to a pillow above her head. Wound like a spring, his entire being throbbing pulsing with raw wanting, he needed more, all of her, _now_.

Heavy-lidded and dark with wanting, Diana's eyes fluttered and opened, finding his; a small nod, and Steve's fingers dug into the flesh of her thigh.

The first luscious plunge into her was bliss, ripping through him like a bolt of lightning, zinging from the top of his head to his toes. He snagged her mouth in a long kiss, swallowing Diana's whimper, her hips rising in encouragement, already teetering on a brink. Steve arched into her, finding the rhythm, catching her effortlessly when the universe fell apart around her, her whole body clenching around him, teeth digging into his shoulder – pain smearing into pleasure, leaving a mark that would stay with him for days on end, the one he would fin oddly appealing.

There was nothing about this place that bore any resemblance to Veld and the night before he died. The air didn't smell of mold and oil lamps and smoke, and there was no desperate urgency now, no primal need to feel alive. Yet, the silkiness of Diana's skin under his hands made him think of the snow melting on her hair, and the way his heart kept tripping over itself every time she laughed, and his hand curled over hers ever so gently as they danced even when the town square emptied, his cheek resting against her temple.

It was a fragile and dangerous thing, this feeling that started to blossom in his chest before he knew it was happening, the warmth he hadn't allowed himself to feel toward another person in so long it felt more like something from another life more often than not. He held on to it, fiercely, willing that night to stay with them forever.

A shiver rippled along his body as his hips stuttered, the steady rock growing frantic and Diana's nails digging into his skin as if to hold him in one piece. And then he was falling into shimmering oblivion – _oh, god, yes_ \- that shattered around them, exploding in a kaleidoscope of pleasure.

"Oh god," he murmured, breathless, one hand still clutching her wrist, another tangled in her hair.

Diana laughed, the melody of it bouncing off the wall and lighting him up from the inside; kissed him along his jaw. "Which one?"

Steve chuckled - a silly, happy sound, and nuzzled into her neck before pulling back just far enough to look at her, her cheeks flushed and her hair fanned out over the pillow, black on white. He'd never felt more alive. "All of them."

 _This is it_ , he thought, breathing her in, drinking up her smile with his eyes, his mind in pieces. _This is what it feels like to have all the time in the world_.

xoox

Curled into him, half-draped over his body, Diana pressed a kiss below his collarbone before resting her head on his chest, his heartbeat a rapid staccato against her own as she waited for her breath to find itself again.

"Is it always like that? Between men and women?" She asked softly when the universe settled around them, no longer exploding behind her eyes in a myriad of colours.

"Like what?" Steve's fingers were threading idly through her hair spilled over her back, the touch of his fingertips to her skin making it tingle.

She touched a faint scar crossing his shoulder, wondering absently about the story behind it. It was old, heaved, a faint reminder of what happened a long time ago. A story she didn't know, and in the back of her mind, she couldn't help but wonder if the memory of it hurt still, if there was a mark it left on him that she couldn't trace with her fingers but that needed to be found, hidden in the fabric of his soul.

"Like it's too much and not enough, all at once." Her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears, like it wasn't hers at all but merely the echo of all questions she never knew how to ask yet.

He stayed quiet for a long moment, allowing the ticking of the clock on the old dresser be the only sound breaking the silence in the room, the air around them still and somewhat electrified, the jolts of nearly current running along her skin with every breath.

"No," he said at last, planting another kiss on the crown of her head. "No, it's not. It's only like that when—when something's real. Some people live their whole life never knowing this feeling."

Her fingers flexed, brushing against his skin, as if trying to hold on to him. As if being wound around him with her entre body was not close enough. She squeezed her eyes, allowing other senses to take over, mapping the steady beating of his heart and the warmth of his skin and the scent of soap and sweat clinging to them both in her mind. She never wished for more than she had, always satisfied with the gifts of life and the gods, but this… this was new, and the fear of almost losing him was raw and fresh in her mind, and there still were moments when their small world felt terrifyingly fragile.

It took her a while to realize that she was not used to losing the people she cared for. The one lesson her mother and Antiope never taught her for loss was an uncommon occurrence for them.

"I used to wish for it, you know," Diana breathed out when Steve didn't add anything else. "The war. From the cliffs above the training grounds, it looked mesmerizing. Powerful." Her voice dropped, turning small. "I used to think that there was no glory bigger than the glory of a battle and no honour greater than the honour of yielding a sword."

"I can see the appeal of that," Steve muttered, the memories from the battle on the beach making him think of how much, in that moment, he wanted to be one of them, wanted to fly over the sand, landing strikes at the enemy with the precision of a god.

"I wanted more than that, I wanted-" Her voice caught for a moment. "My whole life, my mother was telling me that I came to be because she wanted me so much. So what if…"

"What?"

"What if I wished so much for the war that it happened?"

Steve swallowed. "No, you couldn't have," he said without a moment of hesitation, shaking his head.

"You don't know that," she murmured into his chest.

"I do, actually." His hold on Diana tightened, a little protective, a little possessive, and his lips brushed to the top of her forehead, his gaze skimming over her regal profile that was seemingly carved from marble, her long lashes throwing shadows on her cheeks as her gaze remained fixed on something that only she could see. "You have the kindest soul in this whole world, Diana. You'd never bring any harm on anyone, intentionally or not." A pause. "Unless they don't know how to dance."

She snorted and poked him in the ribs with her finger, earning a short laugh in response, and the easiness of this, the lightness of the air around them left her with a warm tightness in her chest that burned through her with a desperate desire to hold on to this feeling until the end of time.

"Besides," Steve continued, "if it was that easy – getting the things just by wishing for them… Well, there'd probably be more people winning a lottery."

Diana lifted her head, her brows furrows ever so slightly. "What's a lottery?"

"Oh… you buy a ticket and if you're lucky, you can win a lot of money," he explained, eyes darting between hers.

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Some people think it will make them happy, I guess."

"Does it?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

She scrunched her face. "It makes no sense."

"Tell that to the poor sods that keep trying," he said in a mock-serious voice, his fingers trailing along her cheek, her skin smooth and soft, the pull of her bottomless eyes luring him into the void like a siren's call.

Gorgeous.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, and his mind empty. If he could just look into her eyes until his last breath, he would die a happy man.

It struck Steve then that he'd never thought they would get here, to this moment, to this feeling of consuming contentment that felt like a cocoon in the world that was made, ultimately, of chaos, and how much he craved it. Before he even knew how to put it into words, he knew he wanted this, her, them, so badly and so achingly it frightened him more than a rain of bullets and the prospect of fighting against ancient god. That, Steve Trevor knew how to handle (maybe not the god part, but he was figuring it out). The thing with Diana, though, the one that was making his heart trip in his chest, leaving him breathless and more or less catatonic – now, _that_ was another story.

"So, I have to ask," Steve started when Diana arched her eyebrow quizzically and it occurred to him that he was probably staring at her without saying anything for quite a while.

"Mm?"

"Those, um, twelve volumes…" He paused, twisting a strand of her hair in his fingers and trying oh so hard not to smile; cleared his throat. "That's a lot to… measure up to."

She blinked, and then dropped her head down, her shoulders shaking with laughter and her hair tickling his skin, and boy oh boy, he couldn't help but swear to make it his life's mission to ensure this sound never died. Even if she was laughing at his less than stellar—

"They were not _entirely_ correct," Diana promised, shifting to move closer to him, her face tucked into the curve of Steve' shoulder and their legs tangled together, skin pressed to warm skin. "Nothing for you to worry about."

He chuckled, a low sound reverberating through his body and into hers.

Somehow, none of them remembered about dinner.

xoox

Steve wasn't sure at what point exactly did the war become his anchor, something that he understood better than the life before or after it, however much he hated the blood and carnage. In some twisted, weird way, it made sense to him. Maybe it was true, after all, about how a person could get used to anything. There were tasks and missions, and in the end, if he got lucky, and if the gods or whatever powers that be were generous, it would be worth the effort.

Or so he used to think to get himself through the hours and days and years or what felt like a never-ending nightmare more often than not.

Technically, on the other side of the ocean, there still was a place that he used to call home, where his memories still lived, if a little faded from time. Memories of barley fields and laughter and a green-eyed girl that got him to make her promises that he believed he would be able to keep, and a hole in his heart so big he was surprised it didn't turn him inside out when he was left with nothing but fear of the future.

"Come with me," he asked Diana one morning while she was making coffee ( _I can't believe this is a commodity in your world_ and _Let me try mixing it myself_ ) in his tiny kitchen – a splash of cream, 2 spoonfuls of sugar (better 3; someone had a sweet tooth).

She looked up at him, her puzzled smile soft in the morning light, "Come where?"

Steve shrugged, his hand pushing through his hair, a speech that he oh so carefully mapped out in his head chocking him, lodged in his throat. "America." A pause. "Anywhere. You wanted to see the world…"

 _Anywhere you want. As long as you're with me_ , he wanted to say, but the words died on his lips, selfish in their essence.

She was a goddess, for heaven's sake! What could he possibly offer to her? For all his claiming that he was above average (ha!), for someone of her caliber, he was probably mediocre, at best. Hell, he probably wasn't nearly that impressive for the majority of the world, either. And yet… and yet, there was nothing that Steve wanted more than to hear her laughter, listen to the sound of her voice in the dark, deep husk of her whisper hidden in the shadows telling him the stories that sounded as magical to him as his did to her.

For as long as Steve remembered himself, he was drawn to the sky; to the vastness and endlessness of it, the freedom it embodied, and the feeling of freefalling when he was soaring so far above the ground the world seemed like a toy. It was drawing him, calling for him, and the resistance was futile – he knew that much from the start. He used to joke that he didn't choose to be a pilot; rather, the sky chose him.

It kept choosing him, over and over again.

Until it left him with a cold, uncertain feeling somewhere deep in his core.

Something happened in the sky in Belgium, and no matter how hard Steve tried to ignore it, it was still there, a nagging presence in the back of his mind. By logic and every law of physics that ever existed, not only was he supposed to be blow up. He should have been pulverized, extinguished without a trace. A blow that could have wiped out the lives of everything and everyone for miles around it epicenter should have exterminated him like he never existed at all. And if not that, if he was simply pushed out of the plane by whatever luck or coincidence, the fall should have killed him.

The fact that none of this happened was making his mind spin and his stomach clench, and more importantly, being here, now, watching the woman that patched the broken parts of him without even knowing it be amazed by something as mundane as a telephone felt like a second chance that shouldn't be wasted. And maybe all he had was this small apartment and his heart – _it's broken but it's still beating and I glued it back together and you almost can't see the cracks anymore_ – and maybe she was celestial in every sense of the word and thus deserved the moon and the stars and everything in-between, but maybe that could be enough. Maybe…

Diana took a sip of her drink, grimacing a little over its bitterness or sweetness – learning was still a work in progress, and _More is not better in this case, Diana_ – and put her mug down. She stepped toward him, and Steve's arms opened for her like he'd been doing it forever. Natural as breathing.

"And what then?" She tilted her face up to his.

"We'll figure something out."

xoox

England was a mess. Most of Europe was in shambles. The victory, however desired, had a bittersweet aftertaste to it – if the loss and devastation weren't nearly palpable enough, the half destroyed cities would clue anyone in on what a painful road the world took to find peace again.

Chief left straight away, having nothing left to gain in this land that was barely scraping by as it was.

Charlie returned home, too; to a small town in northern Scotland that lad little trace of the fighting and thus bore few memories of the years when his life didn't quite belong to him.

Of the three of them, Sameer was the only one who chose to stay in London, although the few times that Steve saw him, he remained vague about his plans, waving off the questions with the light-hearted _I have all the time in the world to think of something_. Steve never pressed.

And while Etta was bursting with questions that he, despite having years and years of experience of doing just that, found rather hard to dodge, she never once brought up his own departure, and it was obvious to him that she knew deep down that he was probably not going to stick around for too long.

That was not a topic of any discussion though, not with him at least. She dragged Diana off a time or two, for some quality girl time, she claimed, although it was hard to tell what kind of quality she was talking about. ("No, no, you're on your own," he raised his hands and even took a step back for good measure when Diana glanced at him for support the first time it happened, trying to bite back his laughter). To his knowledge, they went shopping and out for high tea, and no one got in trouble, and no one got arrested or ended up in a sword fight, so as far as he was concerned, it was a raging success.

"She thinks I'm a good influence," Diana pointed out later, looking both proud and entirely unsurprised.

"I beg to differ," Steve countered without hesitation, mock-serious. "Has she _met_ you?" Eyebrows arched, he watched her jaw drop in disbelief. "I mean, if anything, I am the good influence here. Who taught you how to dress and dance and-" She tugged at his hand to close the distance between them and pressed her lips to his, cutting him off midsentence. "Yeah, okay," Steve muttered against her mouth when she drew back, breathless and dazed. "Etta's right. I'm wrong. Where were we?"

If his now former secretary fished anything of real importance out of Diana, he had no idea. Not that it mattered, in the long run.

"I take it London is growing on you," he noted jokingly when she voiced her desire to stay for a while.

"It has its charm," Diana responded diplomatically, which, said on a dreary and rainy day, came out more as a joke than anything else.

Steve wondered absently how much of this was her desire to help (not that there was much to do now that the god of war was defeated), and how much it was about her sensing his own hesitation to go back to patch of land that had his name on it and the memories he never thought he'd have to unpack again. She never said anything, though, and he never offered an explanation, the things that could have been but never were weighing down on him in the way he didn't quite want to touch for fear of having them collapse on him like a pile of granite blocks.

Sometimes, he felt haunted.

Who knew that falling from the sky and into the ocean could be a turning point in his life like he couldn't even imagine? If this was written in the stars somewhere, Steve mused, he wished he knew how to read that map, if only out of plain, human curiosity. There really was no limit to the wonders of the universe.

xoox

Diana's nightmares started six months later, black shapeless monsters that consumed her mind, setting the demons inside it free, the void pulling her deeper still with every breath. She would often wake up panicking and hyperventilating, her mind stuck between restless slumber and uneasy wakefulness as the beasts were clawing their way out of her head, trying to consume her whole. She didn't know where the dreams came from or how to make them set her free, and this sudden development left her more than a little disoriented.

"Diana?" Steve found her curled in the armchair one night, a book that he was pretty certain she was holding upside down in her lap. He grimaced against the light of the reading lamp and rubbed his eyes, awoken by the lack of the familiar warmth by his side. The one that had been there a few hours ago when he fell asleep. He stifled a yawn. "What are you doing?"

She glanced up and shook her head, her eyes tired and her smile a little too thin for his liking. But when she reached for his hand and her fingers curled around his, the comfort of her touch dulled the edges of his concerns, his momentary worry retreating.

"Couldn't sleep," Diana responded when he leaned in to press a kiss to her shoulder. "Go back to bed."

"Come with me."

"Soon," she promised, dark eyes holding his gaze, soft and reassuring.

Steve nodded; squeezed her hand and padded back into the dark bedroom.

He was hardy the one to judge, really. The war….it left the kind of scars that were impossible to see and that took forever and a half to heal, his own mind praying tricks on him half the time, leaving him stranded between the worlds. He'd long lost the count of backfired cars that sent him crouching behind a garden wall, thinking it was a gunshot, his senses going into an overdrive.

It took time, and effort, and then some more time to stop living the nightmare.

He wasn't blind. She wasn't sleeping well. A bad dream, she'd say every time he asked, retreating into herself if he pressed. Steve didn't want to push, choosing to think she simply needed time-

Until he woke up one night to Diana screaming in her sleep, and the moment he touched her shoulder to wake her, she had his wrist pinned to the headboard of the bed, her other forearm pressed against his throat and her eyes wild. He'd see it before, in Belgium, when there was no stopping her, the power radiating off of her body like a beacon. Her breath short and her chest heaving, she could easily squeeze the life out of him in a blink of an eye.

He wasn't scared, though; wasn't even concerned at first, more surprised than anything else, his heart pounding at such a rude awakening.

"Diana…"

The sound of his voice seemed to have broken the spell, snapping her out of whatever was holding her captive. She let go of him abruptly and scooted away, nearly tumbling out of the bed until she was backing away from him, her eyes wide in shock and confusion.

"Diana…" Steve started again, moving toward her. He kicked off the covers, the carpet soft beneath his feet.

"No," she pressed a hand to her mouth, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he murmured, reaching for her, frantic.

"No, don't." She pressed her back into the wall when there was nowhere left to go, inching away from his touch, and Steve dropped his hand. "Don't." A sob bubbled up in her chest. "I hurt you…"

"You didn't," Steve assured her quickly, the panic rising inside him in tidal waves – over her, over the fear in Diana's eyes.

"I could have… I could have…" She faltered and trailed off, her hand curling into a tight fist and her throat working although no words were coming out.

Steve shook his head and took a tentative step toward her. "No. Never."

The air felt charged around them, he could feel her rapid heartbeat from a foot away. She inhaled sharply and let out a shuddered breath. He caught her gaze and held it, a steady anchor in the sea of madness. His hand brushed along the inside of her wrist, and then over her palm when she didn't pull away, fingers curling around hers. He pushed her hair back from her face, tucked unruly strand behind her ear. "Look at me." He cupped her face with his hands, thumbs brushing away the frightened tears from her cheeks. "Diana, look at me." Her lips were quivering, and his heart clenched with fierce, overwhelming protectiveness. "It was just a dream. Nothing but a bad dream."

She was shaking her head again, but when Steve pulled her to him on a soft, "C'mere," and wrapped his arms around body that was trembling with adrenaline and shock, she didn't protest, merely tucking her face into the crook of his neck. "It's okay, baby. It's over." He pressed a kiss to her hair, holding her against him until her breathing evened out, soothed by the sound of his whisper, the words not as important as the tone of his voice.

"Steve… I'm so sorry," she murmured.

"Shh. It's over."

He brushed his lips to her forehead and pulled her back toward the bed. She crawled back under the covers and climbed over what by an unspoken agreement had become his side to her own, and Steve slid in behind her. His arm slipped around her waist, and Diana rolled over to face him, her hand on his wrist that she was holding in an iron grip not a few minutes ago, now running her finger gently over it as though she was worried that even the lightest of touches would leave marks on his skin, tracing a palm-shaped print left by her hand.

"You want to talk about it?" He asked quietly, tugging her closer to him until she was nestled into his side, her head tucked under his chin and his heart beating beneath her cheek.

"No." Diana's fingers curled around a fistful of his shirt as she pressed her face into soft cotton, allowing her eyes to drop shut again. "I love you," she whispered almost inaudibly, something that Steve had to hear between his heartbeats so soft it was, the words making his pulse stutter. "I love you so much."

There was an edge to her voice, the kind of desperation that splintered his heart.

"Sleep," he breathed out, tightening his hold on her until she was all he could feel.

He himself remained awake long after her breath grew deep and even.

xoox

Two day later, he woke up to find a note on the nightstand, pressed down with his watch lest the morning breeze blow it away, knowing the moment he saw it that she was gone.

 _I'm sorry. Please forgive me_.

 **To be continued...**

* * *

 **A/N:** Yeah, by the way - it's all going downhill from here, angst-wise.

But fear not - it won't last forever. Just most of the time!

Feedback is always much appreciated :))


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note:** First of all, I'm really sorry for taking forever and a half to post this. I did some travelling for something like a month and no writing was done in that time. I do plan to be more consistent with the updates as much as I possibly can :) And second, I'd like to thank everyone for being kind and for the love this story received so far. You're wonderful!

Dig in!

It was a widely known truth that noticing changes in the others was infinitely easier than seeing them in yourself.

It took Steve a few years to take note that something was off. A few more to get worried about it, the way anyone would get worried about the fact that they'd stopped aging. It was easy to brush off Charlie's quips ( _Not having to fight for your life is good for you, man_ ) and Sameer's comments ( _You're just jealous_ ) for a while, and quite frankly, it was hardly a matter of concern for Steve in the years following the war, not when he was too busy putting together the pieces of his shattered life.

Charlie moved back home eventually, driven away by the memories he didn't want to hold on to, and even though his letters remained fairly frequent for a while, the bond was not the same. And Steve couldn't blame him. As close as they were at some point, the war was something one wouldn't want to remember for too long. If there was a part of the world he could run away to, he wasn't sure he wouldn't do so in a heartbeat.

Sameer was still around, but he pulled away as well, putting a wall between the past and the present, and his new life was drastically different from what it used to be that it was hard to keep up.

There was a knowing look in Chief's eyes, the one that made Steve's stomach twist with unease. Like he knew something or could see right into his very soul. However, he never said anything, and Steve never dared ask, fearful of the answers, and then the Chief was gone, too, sailing back to his homeland in hopes of finding a place he could call his own, the torn-apart Europe no longer having anything to offer him.

And this was how Steve Trevor found out that he was terrible at moving on.

The 20's came and went without his noticing, the post-war life taking shape around him, his hopes and dreams finally having a chance to come true. He hadn't noticed most of it, what with being focused single-mindedly on making it through one day at a time until he'd lost the count of them, until they started to blur and bend around him, the time no longer bearing any meaning.

The 30's brought more hassle, the dull pain inside him finally turning into a throb he could almost ignore if he put some effort into it. A decade and a half – that was how long it took him to stop listening for the conversations around him, his ears straining to catch the familiar husk of her voice, the soft accent seared into his memory; that was how long it took his heart to stop wearing itself thin and his throat to no longer go dry at the sight of dark-haired women on the streets of London, and then Paris, and Brussels, and wherever else he happened to be.

Steve Trevor was nothing but unrealistic. He never blamed Diana for leaving. As much as it hurt to admit it, he knew better than anyone that there was little he could offer her, aside from his endless affection, but what value did it have, really? Which didn't mean it stung any less, making him feel like missing her was driving him man more often than not. Understanding was one thing. Accepting… well, it turned out that accepting her decision was something else entirely.

Something that kept him so occupied that he barely even noticed that at the age of 51, he didn't look a day older than 35.

Until he did.

Until he found himself in the bathroom one night, staring at his reflection and unable to recognize the face looking back at him. The features were all in place, as familiar as ever, but the total sum of them wasn't adding up. He touched his cheek, feeling the prickly stubble with his fingertips, and the man in the mirror did the same. His hair was supposed to be streaked with grey, the lines around his eyes were meant to be deeper. It scared him, and yet there was something comforting in being suspended in time. After all, this was what his life had been for the past fifteen years – feeling like the time had stopped.

Ironically, he never got around to fixing his watch. Couldn't even look at it anymore after Diana spent several months wearing it on her wrist. It was bad enough that his clothes and his bedding smelled of her for so long Steve started to think at some point he was losing his sanity, that her very essence seeped into his very skin to stay there for eternity, his mind trapped in the endless loop of memories he wanted to hold on and to forget, all at once.

And so his once most prized possession remained shoved into the drawer of his desk as Steve tried with little success to ignore a twinge of sorrow in his gut whenever he saw it.

This was not how it all was supposed to end.

When the Second World War rolled around, he accepted it with numb resignation, finally admitting to himself that deep down that he never truly believed that killing a god of war was not going to fix mankind. After all, gods or no gods, people were making their own decisions, and sometimes they had to pay for them.

xoox

 _"Dance with me," Steve asked. He was standing by the stove in a sunbathed kitchen one morning, and Diana didn't resist when he set down the spatula and pulled her to him, surprised and curious._

 _His arm wrapped around her waist and his hand curled around hers, and his face was so close that their noses were almost touching, the blue of his eyes so mesmerizing it left her transfixed._

 _"But there is no music," Diana pointed out, one eyebrow arched._

 _The corner of Steve's mouth curled up, his fingers flexing on the small of her back. She could feel the warmth of his touch through the thin fabric of her shirt spreading all over her, the hardwood floor warm beneath their bare feet._

 _"Of course, there is."_

 _And before she knew it, he was humming something under his breath, a tune Diana never heard before but the sound of which reverberated somewhere deep inside her, his body moving ever so slightly, and hers following suit. She could feel his heartbeat her was so close, could feel his breath on her cheek as she rested her forehead against his temple._

 _It was early still, her mind somewhat hazy around the edges, and her lips stretched into a smile on the will of their own. This was ridiculous, and silly, and it made no sense, and yet, she knew deep down that she wouldn't want to be anywhere else but here, swaying to something that wasn't even music, all because there was nothing quite like the contentment of being cocooned in the comfort of Steve's closeness._

 _Diana looked up, her gaze skimming over his bedhead and a faint shadow of stubble dribbling from his cheeks. Solid and warm and alive, and so incredibly off-key it was making her heart almost burst with tenderness._

 _"Steve?"_

 _"Mm?"_

 _He was watching her quizzically, expectantly, his body still rocking almost imperceptibly in place, and his half-smile was pulling her into a vortex of something that she couldn't put into words because they simply didn't exist. It wasn't meant to be defined, she thought absently. It was meant to be felt._

 _Unable to say anything, she reached to brush Steve's hair back, smoothing it down at his temple, taking in his features, trying to memorize them with her fingertips._

 _"Where have you been my whole life?" He whispered, a little puzzled, a little mesmerized._

 _"You know where," Diana murmured back even though he clearly wasn't expecting an answer._

 _She rested her cheek on his shoulder and closed her eyes. With Steve Trevor, she could dance for a hundred years - barefoot, in the cramped kitchen, with no music playing, and her soul would sing and soar every moment of it._

xoox

Themyscira was the same.

And yet it wasn't.

Crossing the barrier around the island felt like a touch of electric static to her skin that made the fine hairs on Diana's arms stand on end. And then all she could see was the outline of the cliffs that she knew like the back of her hand, every nook and crevice of which she could wade through with her eyes closed.

This was the place she called home for as long as she lived, a place that was her entire world, and she rarely, if ever, wondered about what lay beyond it, always content with what she'd had. And how could she not be? How could anyone not be? She was always content, happy as one could ever be.

Looking at the familiar landscape and the turquoise waters surrounding her, she couldn't help but feel a pang of longing in her chest. She missed Themyscira the way one would miss something that was a part of them, flesh and blood, and she suspected that in many ways it was. For all of them. And she realized with a start that when she left this place nearly two decades ago, she never expected to come back, half-fearful to face the people who undoubtedly thought of her departure as betrayal, half-certain that she would never find her way back, through the barrier, to a place that didn't technically exist for everyone else.

Hence the drifter and not a motorboat – she knew the navigation equipment would not work here, Steve told her. His compass went ballistic when he was trying to figure out his location, and she didn't want to get lost, even though a part of her almost wished she'd never find her way back. Maybe it would be better, Diana reasoned with herself, if Themyscira remained hidden, if in her mind, it stayed that magical place where, as a girl, she thought anything was possible and the world was a magical place.

Her mother was waiting for her in the same harbor where they said their sorrowful goodbyes that left Diana's heart so heavy in her chest she thought she was crumble under its weight. Thought the boat might sink, taking her and Steve to the bottom of the ocean, although those were the thoughts she only barely allowed herself to sink into.

Hippolyta's arms closed around her the moment Diana stepped onto the wooden dock, fiercely and protectively, and like she was gone for a hundred years. Or like she'd never left at all. And for a long moment, it felt like she hadn't. Her mother's face was exactly the same, if only the lines looked deeper than she remembered, but maybe it was the light. Maybe it was in her head. Sixteen years was a blink for them, a moment to pass without anyone noticing. Yet, Hippolyta's hands on her cheeks and the smile that she was trying and failing to hold back were giving away the cautious hope she was harbouring for her daughter's eventual return.

She drew back then and looked Diana up and down properly, taking in the unfamiliar clothing, her loose hair falling over her shoulders and a smile that mirrored her own, trembling and teary.

"I'm back," Diana mouthed almost soundlessly, somewhat scared of breaking the moment, and Hippolyta nodded slowly, as though also uncertain as to whether this was real or not.

Her eyes flickered behind Diana's shoulder like she only now noticed the boat that swayed ever so slightly on the waves lapping against the gravel shore, like a whisper.

"You're alone."

The statement caught Diana off-guard for a second, and she glanced behind her for a moment as if to make sure that she didn't accidentally bring someone else with her. If only by sheer distraction.

"Yes," she turned to her mother again, her head tilter to her shoulder. "Should I not be?"

"Your friend…" Hippolyta started and stopped herself; cleared her throat, her face turning into a familiar mask that was meant to keep her feelings in check. "The one who left with you."

It wasn't a question, even though it sounded like one. It made Diana flinch inwardly, as thinking about Steve Trevor always did. If time was supposed to heal all wounds, it was sure taking longer than usual with her. Time was an odd thing, though. She was not used to being concerned about it in any way whatsoever, and yet the rest of the world was obsessed with it. Enslaved by it, even. Outside of this place, life was nothing but a race against time.

Diana didn't know how they were doing it, even though sometimes she wanted so badly to understand it. There was something about the sense of belonging, or lack thereof, that simmered in the back of her mind no matter how much she tried to push it away. She wasn't one of the Amazons, not entirely, but she wasn't one of the people either, and even though it didn't really matter in a grand scheme of things, she wondered sometime just what exactly was her place in this world, which ultimately left her with a sense of profound loneliness.

As for Steve Trevor… She had spent so much time teaching herself not to think about him that her mother bringing him up knocked the ground from beneath her. Of all people in the world, Hippolyta was perhaps the last one she'd ever expected to even think about him, what with how their first meeting went. All the more puzzling was a flicker of sorrow on her mother's face that mirrored her own. She didn't ask anything, though. Didn't comment on Hippolyta's unasked question.

He was better off without her, without all of this, in the world that was his own.

In all the years growing up here, Diana viewed herself and her people as protectors. Never once did it occur to her that they could be dangerous to the innocent. And that night… that night sixteen years ago, she could have killed him. Could have snapped his neck without even noticing. She could still feel his pulse against her forearm, his breath on her skin and his eyes wide and surprised. Never scared. This was what frightened her the most. He was not worried, trusting her completely, the way she used to trust him – blindly, with her body and soul, and everything in-between. What right did she have to put him at risk?

The only problem was that his absence left a hole in her very being, and there seemed to be no way to mend it. Breath after breath, one day at a time, she hoped that he was having the kind of life he deserved, loved and wanted and happy. And if she tried real hard, she could almost forget the way her heart ached with every beat still, like she'd only seen him yesterday, her memories of their time together as fresh as ever.

Maybe some wounds were never meant to heal.

"I kept it the way it was when you left," Hippolyta said when Diana stepped into her chambers, her eyes taking in the same bed she had for a long as she could remember, the same comforter thrown over it, her vanity table untouched, and the endless ocean outside the window so blue it hurt to look at it.

Diana took mother's hands and gave them a squeeze. "I missed you."

Hippolyta hesitated for a brief moment before pulling Diana into a tight embrace. "Welcome home."

That night, she fell asleep to the sound to waves lapping against the rocks below and the tears drying on her cheeks, unsure of what she was crying for – her relief over being able to come back, or the fact that the home didn't feel like home anymore.

xoox

It was the same, and yet as different as it could be, Antiope's death still looming like a gaping hole that threatened to suck them all into the void of desperation, the kind of loss that would never go away. In the time that Diana was away, Artemis took Antiope's place, but she was cautious to become a true replacement. Everything was different, not quite right in the way that was hard to define. Years and centuries of training for a hypothetical threat made the real one feel all the more ominous, looming before them – a _when_ , not an _if_ anymore.

They asked Diana to step up, help train the warriors now that she knew what was on the other side of the peace many of them hoped would last forever. But tempting as it was, she wanted to be one of them, not above them in any way that mattered. She wanted Antiope to be proud of her, not to take her place.

She was watching the training one day from the ledge above the training grounds, the late afternoon sun burning her skin and her breath still short from her own several hours of dodging arrows and deflecting the blows strong enough to shatter steel. Her shield was hanging behind her back, her sword – not the 'god-killer', but one of the many they had in their armoury – resting at her hip while her eyes followed the movement of the other Amazons, graceful as an intricate dance.

She felt Hippolyta appear at her side rather than saw her, her mother's glance also following the attacks and blows and elaborate maneuvers.

Diana's fingers tightened on Antiope's diadem that she was holding in her hands, tracing the star on the front, the smooth metal warm in the sun.

"I hope I'm worthy of it," she murmured, more to herself than to Hippolyta whose eyes darted down almost on instinct.

"You always were," her mother said, equally proud and wistful in the way that Diana wasn't used to.

"Why didn't you tell me the truth? About Zeus, and Ares, and me." She turned to Hippolyta, not curious so much as weary, the need for answers pressing down on her.

"The truth can be a burden, Diana. I didn't want you to carry it the way I had to."

Diana opened her mouth to protest, to claim that she had the right to know, had the right to be prepared for what was waiting for her on the other end of the journey she'd started on a moonlit night because she couldn't resist the call of the man's world, a sense of betrayal still running like electric current beneath her skin.

Would it have changed anything? She didn't know, no matter how much she tried to imagine it. Probably not. It would probably only complicate things in certain ways, but then there was an issue of honesty, of honour that was engrained into her since birth. By her mother, no less. That part stung the most, perhaps, a dull ache that made her question everything else she knew about the world, about the Amazons, about herself.

Still, she nodded, the words dying on her lips. What was done was done; all they could do now was live with their choices.

"Antiope would be honoured if you took her place," Hippolyta noted, an unexpected edge to her voice that made Diana's mouth go dry. "Nothing would make her happier than if you did so, Diana." A pause. "But would it make you happy?"

Diana shook her head. "I am not Antiope. I don't know if I'm suited for it."

Hippolyta's eyes remained locked on the warriors. "It's not what I asked."

Diana turned to her, a slight frown creasing her brows. "I don't understand…"

At last, her mother looked at her, unfamiliar uncertainty pooling in her gaze. "This is your home. This will always be your home. But they need you more than we ever will."

The moment felt surreal. "I don't belong in the man's world."

It was odd to say it out loud, the truth that she kept turning in her head and rearranging it like a puzzle that still formed the same picture in the end. Said to another person, it felt more final somehow. Real like never before.

Hippolyta's features softened.

"Maybe so. But this," her gaze dropped to the women below them, her voice breaking ever so slightly, "will never be enough."

"I should go back there," Diana looked away as well, feeling like they were walking on eggshells around something important but unsure of what it was, and scared to find out.

"Diana," Hippolyta called after her, making her daughter stop and glance back. "He was meant to come back."

The words landed on her like blows she was too slow to deflect, too dumbfounded to even try. "You should know better than to believe in fate," Diana shook her head.

"You should know better than not to."

xoox

There was no such thing as fate, that much Steve Trevor was sure of. If anything, he found the notion childish, if not entirely ridiculous. Fate implied that free will didn't exist, that every thought, every move was set in motion by something beyond his comprehension, and the idea made him feel powerless. If everything was predetermined, if there was no way to break out of this circle, then what was the point? What was the point of waking up in the morning, of going through motions? If there was no way to change the things and fix the mistakes, then what was the point of _living_?

Instead, he found solace in the opposite. Solace and hope. He hoped that the nightmare the world had plunged itself into had a better outcome than what everyone was fearing. That they were not, in fact, doomed.

And maybe there was no fate, but there certainly was some cruel joke to his situation.

Oddly enough, the hardest part of not aging was staying unnoticed, moving around before anyone could suspect anything, walking away, severing every bond he would form in the brief moments when he wasn't on the run from himself. Pretending someone else more often than not. Funny how he used to imagine that once the cannon stopped piercing the sky, he wouldn't need to be a million people at once anymore, and yet now it was all he could be for as long as he existed, however long that might be. Sometimes, it scared him, this half-living. Other times, he felt safe, protected from the heartbreak and pain by refusing to feel anything at all.

The real problem was getting some sort of new documents every now and then, moving up his birth year. Sure, he could pass for a 35-year old at 40, but not at 50. This was bound to raise some questions sooner or later, and the world was already jumping from one hysteria to another without so much as a second thought. The last thing he needed was to attract unnecessary attention.

It was the gas, Steve figured. Must have been. How else was he supposed to explain what was happening to him? He pushed the words 'gods' and 'magic' out of his mind – not because he didn't believe it could be the case (and how could he not, after everything he'd seen and been through?), but because taking that road hurt more than he could handle most of the time. Because it made him think of something beyond his comprehension.

And what did it matter, really? Knowing wouldn't change anything, wouldn't make it any less insane in the world where being frozen in time was anything but normal. He wondered, if a little absently, with the apathy of someone who accepted their life as it was, if knowing the truth would make any difference, if it would make him more accepting of what was happening or plunge him deeper into ever-consuming dread. There probably was no right answer here, and Steve was not interested in looking. Not yet, at least.

Not that it was his priority right now, anyway.

The Germans again, and Steve couldn't help but see the awful irony of the situation.

The new war was brutal, and at times, it felt worse than the first one, even though he could probably chalk it off to the novelty of a new experience and the fading memories from a decade and a half ago that sometimes looked like wilted flowers pressed between the pages of a book than a recollection of something real. Unfocused. Granted, he didn't want to remember it, more than pleased to let go of whatever memories were still clinging to his mind like a thin film. But that was the danger, he figured. People were prone to forgetting their mistakes. Maybe this was why the world was falling apart all over again.

Most days, he wanted to give up. Walk away and never look back. Most days, it seemed like the only thing he could do. Knowing that it was the one thing he knew how to do best made it easier to breathe when his chest was tight and his throat dry from fear and desperation.

Like now when he was walking down the corridor toward the office of Commander Himmler, a man who was considered Hitler's 'right hand', the German uniform stiff on his body and cold sweat trickling down his spine. This was no longer about winning – personally, he's long lost hope for that, what with the world managing to corner itself into the kind of situation there didn't seem to be an escape from – but about surviving. And if he was lucky, if his calculations were correct and the Commander was taking his usual lunch break with his second-in-command downstairs, maybe there was a chance Steve could sneak a peek at the plans, or letters, or anything…

His father passed away five years ago, several months before the war broke out again, peacefully in his sleep, believing that the world he was leaving behind was a good place. At times, Steve thought that not disappointing him was the one thing that kept him going. At times, it seemed like enough.

He turned left, listening carefully for voices or footsteps, the doors on either side of him closed and holding nothing but silence behind thick wood panels. He could have been breeding goats right now, he thought, feeling the fine hairs on the nape of his neck stand on ends. He could have been doing _anything_ – god knew, he didn't owe this world a single thing.

If he was caught now, if his story wasn't plausible enough, he would never leave this building, this village, this damned land.

A quick glance over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed—

Something barreled into him from the side, pushing him into a dark alcove, and Steve's heart leaped into his throat, nearly chocking him, a rush of adrenaline making him weak in the knees. Deaf from the blood rush in his ears, he reached instinctively for his gun, only to have it knocked out of his hand not a second later, a sharp pain spreading from his wrist and up his arm. It took him a moment to realize that something sharp and cold was pressed to his throat. A knife.

And in the next second, it all faded away—

He knew that feeling, knew the smell that wrapped around him like a cloak. In the darkness of the alcove, the air was heavy and thick, and with his eyes not yet used to the dimness, Steve felt like someone pulled a bag over his head and he was suffocating. This was the same feeling he'd had on the streets of Paris and in the alleys of Madrid when he would catch a whiff of the same delicate scent that lingered in his apartment and on all of his clothes for months after Diana had left, the very same one that made him think he was losing his mind when he chased after strangers only to see that they were not who he was looking for.

Right now, he was once again feeling like someone pulled him underwater, the air nowhere to be found, and the tip of the blade at his throat had oh so little to do with it.

Steve blinked, his vision adjusting to the semi-darkness and his heart pounding so loudly he was certain everyone in a ten-mile radius could hear it, alarming and rapid, and like it was going to break through his ribcage that grew too small for it by the moment.

A pair of black eyes stared back at him – the exact same one that used to hold his entire universe where stars were forming constellations with the pull of magic coursing between the two them, an electric current that left sizzling sparks along his skin. He blinked, desperate to shake off this odd affliction. Of all the times, of all the places—

"Steve?"

The blade was gone and the hold on his arm he didn't even notice released on instant.

The familiar husk of her voice rolled down him like a tidal wave pulling him into the depths of something dark and bottomless.

Her own name died on his lips, the word refusing to claw itself out of his throat. Her gaze was confused, her wild hair tied at the nape of her neck and the ever-present armour hidden under a nondescript coat. In the corridor, he wouldn't have looked at her twice.

Except it was the only thing he could do now, stuck in déjà vu that was playing on endless loop. None of this was real, couldn't be, and yet he didn't want it to be anything but.

 _Diana_.

She took a half a step back, pressed against the opposite was of a niche that was barely enough to fit them both and stared back at him like she was seeing a ghost – a feeling Steve could relate to all too well. He blinked, expecting her to disappear the way she did in his dreams, no more corporeal than a fantasy. Instead, she came into focus, all angles and edges in the shadows, her face unreadable, and the only thing he wanted to look at.

The questions swarmed in his head, forming and falling to pieces without registering with him, half-words dissipating in his mind as he struggled to draw in a shallow breath. Here, of all places…

"I don't…." Diana started, a frown forming between her eyebrows, her eyes scanning his unchanged face, the same lines she used to trace with her fingers as if to sear the image of him in her memory for the centuries to come. She shook her head, and Steve had to swallow a sharp laughter that bubbled up in his chest – a bitter sound that would slash through the air and have this house of cards crumble before his eyes if he allowed it to escape. "How?"

"None of this came with instructions," he found himself responding in a chocked whisper, his vocal cords still refusing to cooperate. She was looking at him like she was seeing a ghost, and he couldn't blame her. With how he was only half-living, Steve felt like nothing but a phantom himself. "What are you doing here?"

His tone wasn't unkind, but it was hardly welcoming, and Diana's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She tipped her chin, composing herself, and there was only so much he could do not to reach over and tuck a strand of hair that escaped her hairdo behind her ear, his fingers itching to touch her, make sure she was real.

"I came to help."

At this, his lips curled into a humourless smirk that felt sharp at the edges. _We don't need your help_ , he wanted to say. _I don't need your help_. The last time she helped, she left him with a hole in his soul so big it threatened to turn him inside out with every breath he took. Talking to her now, being this close to something that he used to want more than anything in the world, breathing the same air as her was making him nearly rip at the seams.

A sound of footstep around the corner broke the spell, snapping him back to reality. Steve inhaled sharply, his gaze darting around their hiding place as a dozen comments died on his tongue.

"Come on," he muttered, slipping back into the corridor and making a beeline for the room at the very end of it, guarded by massive doors, not needing to look behind to know that Diana would follow, swift and soundless as a shadow.

"What are we looking for?" She asked in a hushed voice the moment he locked the door behind them, his own eye darting around the office. Heavy mahogany desk. Bookshelves lining the walls. Dark-green curtains, thick enough to block out the sunshine, currently pulled apart to reveal a wide balcony.

Steve hesitated, his thought-through plan nowhere near to be found, wiped off by the sound of her voice.

"Um… maps. Transcripts of phone calls," he muttered. "Notebooks."

It took him so long to get here, a few months of lingering close to Himmler, studying his habits, looking for a chance to do something… He walked straight to the desk and checked the drawers. Locked. He grabbed a letter-opener. It was a matter of a few seconds, almost too easy. The man trusted his posse though, to a degree. They feared him too much.

"This?" Diana asked from across the room.

Steve glanced up, and nodded – she was holding a stack of blueprints of sorts. No time to go over them now but this was the only chance he'd ever get. They knew him, they saw his face, and he was never coming back – might as well not hold back. There was a phone book in the bottom drawer, and he reached for it. Two rolled up maps and a calendar with some markings that might require some decoding, but this again was a problem for later.

"Steve."

"One second," he muttered, flipping through a handful of papers and trying to focus. There was no need to loot the entire office if only he could find something that was _actually_ useful.

"Steve, someone's coming."

That got his attention alright.

Across the room, she was standing with her ear pressed to the door, an armful of something he hoped was of help cradled to her chest. Their eyes met, and she nodded ever so subtly, her eyebrows pulled together in concern. And now he could hear it too – faint voices, far enough, but approaching. Granted, they could be heading to one of another half a dozen rooms but Steve wasn't going to take his chances.

The gears in his mind shifted.

He crossed the room in two strides, and then cursed under his breath – the balcony would be an easy escape, however there were two officers smoking in the back garden, and there was no way that someone escaping the Commander's office would go unnoticed.

"Here?" Diana pointed at the window that faced the side of the house, and he gave her a curt nod.

"Can you take these?" He asked, his eyes darting toward the papers she was holding.

Without another word, she shifted the whole load in one arm and pushed the window. It didn't budge, the handle either stuck or broken. The voices grew louder. "Stand back," she mouthed without a sound, and then her elbow rammed into the glass before Steve realized what she was doing, letting the chilly March air into the room. It smelled like wet soil and snow, biting at their cheeks.

 _Shit_. Too much noise.

His head snapped up, the voices on the other side of the door sounding alarmed now. The doorknob jiggled, and he thanked all powers-that-be for remembering to lock it, ignoring the pounding and the loud discussion about whether or not anyone had a key.

"Just hold on to—" Steve started when Diana pushing a few pieces of broken glass out of the way and looked outside, assessing the situation for a moment. However, she simply stepped onto the ledge and then jumped before he had a chance to finish his thought, landing gracefully on the frozen ground below, somehow missing a patch of thorny bushes, bare this early in the season, and then looked up at him, still standing in the second-floor window. "Or you can just do this," he muttered and grabbed the gutter pipe with a free hand, hoisting himself up on the windowsill and sliding without much grace along the wall, his own precious haul held close to his chest.

"Well, this was easy," Diana said once he reached the ground, just as all hell broke loose around them.

xoox

There was no stopping anyone this time around, no trying to, either, and the best Steve could do – the best anyone could do, really – was develop an escape plan. Hence breaking into the offices and hanging on to the snippets of conversations and hunger for any information he could use against the enemy. The idea came to him a couple of years ago, when it became apparent that he couldn't keep his own identity without turning into a lab experiment.

He pushed the door open held it for Diana as she stepped into a small apartment he was renting on the outskirts of Berlin (the one rented by 'Karl Werber'), trying not to dwell on how exactly they managed to get out of Himmler's mansion in one piece, his ears still ringing with the wails of sirens and the yells of the men.

"How do I know it's really you?" Diana asked when the door closed behind them, the silence of the room suddenly so loud it made his head hurt. She was still holding back, finally able to catch her breath and assess the situation, eyeing him with suspicion.

"You don't," Steve caught her gaze a held it, momentarily forgetting how to breathe. He set the papers down on the desk, the need to go through them falling back, not at all urgent all of a sudden. "I didn't ask for any of this, and I don't have to prove anything to you. Not anymore."

"It's not possible."

 _Then go_ , he wanted to say. _Don't believe it. I wouldn't either._

Steve grabbed the lasso she set down on the rickety chair by the door, her shield still held in her hand like he was a threat, albeit a minor one, and let it unravel as he grabbed one glowing end of it, holding on tight even though it felt like it could burn his fingers off. Gritted his teeth for a moment, willing his voice not to break.

"My name is Captain Steve Trevor, former pilot with American Expeditionary Forces, Serial number 8141921. When you pulled me out of the water at Themyscira, I thought I was dead and you were an angel." She was looking at him like he was a ghost. The way Steve looked at himself in a mirror. His voice dropped, the burning in his hand forgotten. "The beauty marks on your shoulder form a Lyra constellation. When I told you that Eskimo people have 50 words for snow and wondered why we don't have as many for love, you said it was because love went beyond words. Do you remember that?"

He was standing so close now that he could feel the warmth of her body and see a faint dusting of freckles on her nose, her eyes dark and bottomless, and Steve was suddenly reminded of how much he wanted to see her, the force of missing and longing and everything he'd spent years learning to ignore feeling like a sucker punch to his gut, knocking all wind out of his body.

Diana was looking back at him, and it was so hard not to touch her, not to pull the pins out of her air and let it fall down her shoulders because it wasn't meant to be contained. Steve clutched the lasso tighter to stop himself from doing just that for he knew he would cease to exist.

"For years, I was looking for you in every face around me," he continued in a strained voice, "until they were nothing but grey mass. Until I couldn't tell them apart." A pause. "Is this enough proof for you?"

"It wasn't easy for me either," she breathed out, and he almost missed it, the words drowned by the hammering of his heart against his ribs.

"You sure made it seem so," he couldn't help but mutter back, the bitterness of the words tasting foul in his mouth.

Diana bristled at the accusation, lips pursed into a thin line. Raised her chin, holding his gaze, her eye narrowed ever so slightly. "What was I supposed to do?" She demanded, half-defensive, half-pleading. "You don't know what it was like…"

"Because you wouldn't tell me," he interjected, and shook his head, disgusted with his outburst. Stupid. He thought they were past this, thought _he_ was past this, after all this time…

"What if I hurt you? What if I really hurt you, Steve, what if I-" Diana cut off and swallowed, her breath catching. "How would I live with myself if that happened?" She searched his face for a long moment, a storm of emotions crossing her features, vulnerable and unguarded. "I only wanted you to be happy," she whispered when the silence grew so thick and heavy it could be cut with the knife.

Steve dropped the lasso that stopped glowing instantly. A dark coil at their feet.

"I was. And then you left."

 **To be continued...**

* * *

 **A/N:** This fic will actually pick up pace from here, so hopefully it'll be more fun to follow!

Feedback is much appreciated :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note:** "I didn't meant it to be this long but here we are" - a thrilling saga.

Although I hope than an almost 10k chapter is not something you would mind :) Thank you so much for your love, I appreciate it beyond words!

* * *

" _You're a moron, Steve Trevor_." There was the kind of exasperation in Etta's voice that made it hard to disagree with her. He could see her oh so clearly before his mind's eye, shaking her head and maybe rolling her eyes at him for good measure. God knew he couldn't blame her.

 _Yeah well, what else is new?_ Steve thought, but somehow managed not to say it out loud.

He glanced up at the yellow light spilling from his living room window, an old receiver of a payphone squeezed between his ear and his shoulder as he shivered in the cold that the glass walls provided zero shelter from, his senses so on edge he could almost hear the wind chase the dust along the pavement outside the tiny booth. The fact that this phone was even working when most of the things in this county didn't was a miracle in and of itself.

A shadow moved behind the curtains, and Steve's stomach twisted into a knot, his gaze glued to the slight sway of fabric. It was so damn easy to imagine Diana move about his scantily furnished place, curious and maybe just as restless as he was. Which made him wish he'd kept it cleaner. Which made him scold himself mentally – for caring and because it wasn't like it actually mattered in the present circumstances.

"Have you or have you not spoken with her?" He asked again, trying not to dwell how oddly comforting it was to hear Etta's voice again, a little relieved by the familiarity of it, a little ashamed of not talking to her more often. Of not talking to her, period.

She huffed, and Steve could hear her move around her apartment – back in London, a few hundred miles and a whole lifetime away from where he was. " _I have not, but it's what you should be doing. Instead of calling me at… half past midnight_."

Steve winced. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was so late-"

" _It's not what I meant, Steve_." There was a long pause on the line, and after a few seconds, he thought they must have been disconnected, wondering if he should dial the number again or leave her alone. Until she spoke again. " _You need to go there and fix whatever happened between the two of you. God knows you've been pining for her long enough_."

Steve let out a sharp exhale and rubbed his eyes. "I haven't been…" He trailed off, too tired to argue.

" _Is she really there?_ "

 _Unless I made her up_. "I think so."

" _Are you okay?_ " Etta asked in a different voice, and the simple concern all but snapped him in half.

"Yeah," he breathed out. "I better let you sleep. Thanks, Etta."

" _Steve?_ " She said before he had a chance to hang up. " _Take care_."

He hadn't seen her in years, refused her offer to help him when the new war started and, technically, he needed someone on the sidelines to help him from the outside. Between the risk of being exposed and a genuine affection toward Etta, it was easier to cut the ties, tell her to stay as far away from this mess as she could. So much easier that way.

"I didn't think you'd come back," Diana said when he stepped through the door some pacing and a million half-formed thoughts and questions later, his insides coiling.

"This is my home," Steve responded evenly as he shrugged out of his jacket that proved being almost entirely useless against the German winters and hung it on the peg by the door, ignoring how dry his throat got in a fracture of a second.

Diana looked around, and in that moment, Steve saw the place through her eyes – without the old books and photographs filling his apartment in London. His grandmother's clock wasn't sitting on the mantelpiece, and a knitted quilt wasn't draped over the back of the couch, and if it wasn't for some spare clothes that he kept in the drawers in the bedroom and several pieces of cutlery in the kitchen, no one would ever guess that anyone lived here at all.

She didn't turn to him when she spoke, "No, it's not."

xoox

It was the light that awoke Steve a few hours later, a faint strip underneath the bedroom door that didn't really bother him, per se, but that was impossible to ignore. All those years of living on his own made him too aware of another person's presence this close to him.

Earlier, it was somehow decided to postpone the inevitable conversation till the morning, on account of how the day was long as hell. However, Diana refused his offer to take his bed, claiming that the couch – old and lumpy and decidedly uncomfortable – would be more than enough for her, thank you very much. He insisted because she was the _guest_. When he said that, she nearly flinched like he'd struck her, making Steve wish that he hadn't opened his mouth at all.

He didn't have it in him to argue after that, the mere idea of being separated from her by only a door was enough to leave him jittery, twisting and turning in the bed that suddenly got too big and too cold and too hard and—

Steve let out a long breath and rubbed his eyes, his head pounding from exhaustion and a million things that he couldn't stop thinking about. He kicked away the thin blanket that was of little to no help against the drafts snaking in through the cracks in the window frames and climbed out of the bed, the floor freezing under his bare feet. It felt odd to not be at ease here. Diana was right, this was not his home. Yet, it still was the only place where he didn't need to pretend to be someone else, and these days it counted for something.

Steve's hand paused on the door knob, his heart tripping over itself momentarily. Maybe she just forgot to turn the lights off…

Diana was sitting by his desk in the near the window, very much awake. She caught the movement out of the corner of her eye when he stepped out of the bedroom and looked up, and for a long moment, they simply stared at one another across the space that was miles and decades and thousands of words they never got to say.

Her hair was down and falling over her shoulders in heavy waves, the heavy coat that was hiding her armour before draped over the back of the armchair in the corner, and even though the sleepwear Steve offered to her was left untouched on the armrest of the couch – something that he was both grateful for and regretful about - she still looked soft around the edges, a little tired, and so much like what he used to wake up to every morning that it all but left him breathless.

Steve's hands curled into fists at his sides, fingers itching to touch her, run through that impossible mane of hers, feel her again. He felt his cheeks grow hot and dropped his gaze, grateful for the dimness of the reading lamp and the ten feet between them.

Some things never changed.

It didn't come as a surprise that her presence somehow hurt even more than her absence, the dull throb somewhere deep inside him a familiar feeling he was way too accustomed to for his liking.

He cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot, antsy and on edge, too tired to focus properly on anything, too wired to sleep. Maybe this was why she was up as well.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

Diana shook her head and looked down at the papers strewn over the desk before her – their earlier haul. "Couldn't sleep," she responded softly as though there was someone else she might have disturbed. "So I thought I would…." She trailed off with an uncertain half-shrug. "To be honest, I have no idea what I'm looking at here."

It was late, and his eyes felt full of sand and his head buzzed in that overly-exhausted way that he knew he was going to pay for later.

He should have turned around and gone back to bed right there and then. (He should have found her another place to stay, period.) Instead, Steve ran his hand over his hair, either smoothing it down or ruffling it even more, and walked over to the desk, mindful of Diana's shield propped against one of the chairs and her overcoat draped over the back of it, trying hard not to look directly at her.

Like he could get blind if he stared for too long.

Like she was the sun.

Steve reached for another chair to pull it to the desk, but then decided to perch on the couch armrest instead, leaning forward to study the map spread before her, ignoring the encrypted transcripts for now. They might require some proper brain power he didn't have.

This time around, he had a rule – not thinking about any this at night. Trapped in the never-ending nightmare had a toll on him as it was, the war wearing him thin. Losing the sleep over something he had no control over was impractical at best, and downright stupid at worst. The demons haunting him were no less present when he was awake regardless.

And yet here he was, breaking the rule that saved him from madness and desperation more times than he could count. All it took was for Diana to make an appearance in his life again and turn it upside down like he had no say in it whatsoever.

Not that he ever harboured any illusion that he had.

"It's a maneuver map. Russian. Supplied by the German intel, I believe," Steve explained, finally taking a proper look at what they managed to escape with. "You know, how they plan to move their troops and…" _Right, a warrior_. "You probably know all about those things."

Diana's finger traced one of the lines, marking the position of the borders of the front. "We do it differently," she offered if a little absently, and he nodded, uncertain if any response was required. Which made him wonder where she was all this time. Which made him wonder, period.

"Yeah, so…" He started again, pointedly keeping his eyes on the map.

He explained to her that with the direction the war was heading, his main job at this point was finding information on the offence planned by the Germans, and clearing the civilians, particularly those doomed to end up in concentration camps, out of the way. Half the time they didn't believe him, sometimes they thought it was a setup, mistrusting of anything by now, too tired to carry on the fight. But there were lives that he saved, and they really and truly counted.

Unofficially, this was what he had been doing these past four years.

Officially, he was supplying the British with scrap of information he could get his hands on, much like the first time around.

Except he never flew a plane again.

"Concentration camps?" She echoed when he finished, confused.

 _Not now_.

There was a lot about his kind that Steve Trevor wasn't proud of, slavery and discrimination being high up on that list, but the camps were undoubtedly the most inhuman and inhumane thing that happened in this world, and to say that he was ashamed to bring it up with someone who used to believe in the goodness of all people was a monumental understatement. At times he couldn't help but think that they didn't deserve to be helped by someone like her after all.

"I'll—I'll explain later."

She didn't press, but her expression remained determined. "Surely there is more that can be done," Diana frowned, studying him pensively.

He rubbed his eyes, feeling the weight of the day press down on him. No, not the day. The past four years that drained him to the core. "I'm only one man," he said, his voice weary. Which wasn't entirely correct, per se. However, his commanding officer didn't know even half of it, deeming Steve as nothing but a spy, and thus eliminating any support in anything else that he tried to achieve.

"Not anymore."

"Why are you doing this?" He asked quietly, meeting her gaze for the first time. "This is not your battle. You don't owe us anything."

She studied him for a long moment. "Because I can help. There's always a choice, right? To do something or to do nothing, it's what you said." Diana repeated his own words to him, the answer he'd long forgotten about. "I can do something."

At last, he nodded. Then turned back to the map. "This is a new one because this area here is still marked as ours."

"Here?" She followed the line he was pointing at, her fingers brushing briefly against his, and Steve jerked his hand away like he got burned – something that surely didn't escape Diana's attention. She drew her own hand back as well and stared straight ahead. "Do you really hate me this much?"

The question felt like a sucker-punch, knocking all wind out of Steve, making his throat close up, the air between them thick and heavy.

"You're hurt," he said all of a sudden.

"What?"

Steve's gaze fixed on a long cut on the outside her arm, running from the wrist and halfway to her elbow, red and raw, no longer bleeding but looking awfully painful nonetheless, his brows furrowed. "How did that happen?"

Diana turned her arm to look at it. "I… I don't know. Must be the glass."

"I'll get something to clean it up," he muttered, getting up, somewhat grateful for an excuse to change the subject. With the way this conversation was going, he wasn't sure he wanted to get to the end of it.

She shook her head dismissively. "It will heal."

"It can get infected-"

"Steve."

As if not hearing her, he crossed the room, which required no more than two steps to get to the kitchen where he kept his first-aid kit – a military bag with bare necessities, at this point. Some gauzes and dressing pads, a strong-smelling antiseptic that burned as hell when it came in contact with the skin and a handful of other things. He couldn't remember the last time he needed to use anything more than a bandage. Maybe he needed to restock it properly, in the light of recent events and—

His fingers clutched the bag as he tried hard not to feel this… this odd warmth in his chest. The ice breaking, his armour cracking, its jagged edges scraping the fabric of his soul.

She was still sitting at the desk – he might never be able to sit on this chair again without imaging her in it, watching him fumble with the zipper with the expression he couldn't quite read. Something between endearment and exasperation and _Can you please do as I ask for once?_ He chose not to think of any of that.

"Steve…"

"Let me…"

He lowered down on the armrest again and reached for her hand, turning her wrist gently and struggling to keep on functioning properly, although it was not the cut itself that unnerved him – on the battle field, he got to see the things he knew he'd need several lifetimes to forget. A person torn apart or turned inside out was not something easily erased from the memory. Right now, though, it dawned on him that he had never seen Diana hurt. Not anything beyond a bruise or a scratch that would disappear before his eyes.

Invincible.

Unbreakable.

 _A goddess_.

It was like everything about this day was meant to be wrong somehow.

"I'm sorry," he muttered when she tensed at the touch of antiseptic to her wound. "We need to… you wouldn't want it to get infected," he repeated, uncertain if it even mattered. Maybe she couldn't be affected by any of that to begin with.

Her fingers flexed a little. He could feel her eyes on him and didn't dare look up. Diana's skin felt smooth and soft and warm against his calloused touch, her pulse tripping ever so slightly under his fingertips, and it was pretty damn hard to pretend that he didn't notice it.

"It will be fine," she said softly, and he wondered if she did it just to fill the pause hanging between them.

Steve wrapped a sterile bandage around it, fighting through a strong sense of déjà vu, his mind springing back to the day on Themyscira when it was him who'd been bandaged in the healing caves underneath the castle. He remembered the scent of some oil, strong but not unpleasant, and a cool touch of an ointment that the woman whose name he never found out applied to his cuts even though she probably didn't have to. He was a prisoner. They didn't have to care.

"Now it will be," he secured the bandage and pulled away from her, finding it hard to keep avoiding looking at her. Such a fool. "How did you find me?" He asked at last, unable not to.

"I wasn't looking for you," Diana replied after a moment of hesitation, and he couldn't tell at once if he was disappointed or relived by her words. "I didn't think you'd want me to. I was looking—I saw Sameer." That would explain in, Steve thought. "He said he hadn't heard from you in a while."

"It's better if they stay out of it," Steve responded, burning with the desire to know if Sami brought him up, or if she asked about him. "All of them, they're better off without being involved again."

"And you?"

A wry smile flickered across his face before Steve could hold it back. "It's not like I have much else to do."

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but stopped herself and simply nodded. "Sami told me about Hitler." Her gaze darted quickly toward the lasso. "I came looking for answers."

And just like that Steve remembered that Hitler was, in fact, expected to be at the mansion this week, expect his plans changed the last moment, which, ironically, played out in Steve's favour – without the Fuhrer, there was less security around. The fact that they managed to get out of there alive was all thanks to the fact that Diana's initial plan sort of failed.

"He's not another relative of yours, is he?" Steve offered. The first joke he'd allowed himself, and he could have sworn her lips quirked a tiny bit.

"It crossed my mind, yes," Diana admitted, not without a hint of amusement.

His eyebrow crept up in genuine curiosity. "Is he?" Diana shook her head, and for a moment, he felt foolish – like he was the one being insane asking that question. As if he hadn't seen her fight an actual god. He cleared his throat. "Hitler is not Ludendorff. It's more complicated than that."

"Than what?"

"You thought that killing Ludendorff would change everything." He stuffed his poor medical supplies back in the bag and zipped it shut, desperate to do something that didn't involve looking at the woman sitting before him, aware all of sudden of the fact that he was only wearing a loose shirt and, well, underpants, feeling oh so very underdressed. "It's different now. Many tried to come after Hitler but this war—it's bigger than just one person. It's politics. Japan in involved. Austria, Russia…" He trailed off with a shrug. "There are people who benefit greatly from this mess."

"It wasn't about Ludendorff. It was about Ares," Diana reminded him.

Steve glanced up at her. "But it's not now, is it?"

She shook her head. "There must be something… something that can be done to stop it."

"There is something. Helping is something."

It felt like a lie even coming from his own mouth, and for a moment, he almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation.

Maybe there was no way out. Maybe they were all doomed for extinction.

"You never answered my question," Diana murmured when he stood up.

"I think we need to have some rest." He met her gaze. Held it, almost daring her to ask him again.

She didn't.

Later, when Steve was dozing off at last, sometime before dawn, he could have sworn he heard the door open and close, half-scared and half-certain that she would be gone when he woke up. However, a few hours later, when the harsh sun streaming through the uncurtained window dragged him out of uneasy slumber and he stumbled into the living room, rubbing his eyes that felt like someone scrubbed them with sandpaper, Diana was fast asleep, curled under her cloak on his old couch.

Maybe he dreamed it up, Steve thought, watching her sleep, her breathing deep and even.

Or maybe he was still dreaming.

xoox

 _The light was grey when she woke up one morning, just after dawn, to the white noise of a slight drizzle pattering against the windowsill and a palpable absence of familiar warmth next to her. She loved the rain, the soft rustling of it against the streets and rooftops, like a whisper; like the world telling her secrets that weren't meant to be shared out loud. For all the luscious green perfecting of Themyscira, the moodiness of the weather in the man's world fascinated her beyond words._

 _It was early still, the room veiled with shadows lingering in the corners. Diana rolled onto her back, blinking sleepily, her hand brushing against the cool sheets._

 _"Steve?" She rubbed her eyes, the fog of a dream she could no longer recall clinging to her brain like a thin film._

 _Another moment had passed before he appeared in the doorway, sporting a raging bedhead, his smile brighter than sunshine, soft and all hers, and Diana felt her own lips tug up at the corners in response as he crossed the cold room, walking toward her._

 _"Hey." Propped on one knee, he leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. "Didn't mean to wake you. Sleep. It's still early."_

 _Her hand curled around his wrist. "Where did you go?"_

 _"Coffee," he grinned. "Want some?"_

 _She tugged him down to her with the tiniest shake of her head. "Stay with me."_

 _Steve pushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his smile growing so tender it hurt to look at it, and then slipped under the covers, curling around her like a shell. He let out a breath, folding Diana into a curve on his body, his bare chest warm against her back and his breath tickling her neck. Perfect fit, he would joke now and then, albeit in somewhat… different circumstances most of the time. She couldn't agree more._

 _He tucked her closer to him, his lips brushing to her shoulder. "Do you miss it?" His whisper was so soft Diana almost missed it. "Your home?"_

 _She did. More than she was willing to admit even to herself. Her whole existence was tied to Themyscira, it was in her blood and bones, maybe someplace deeper than that, even._

 _She kissed the inside of his bicep that her head was resting on; traced her hand along his arm, lacing their fingers together. Looked up just enough to see a line of his jaw, his face obscured by the shadows. When Steve was this close, she could feel his heartbeat, barely able to tell it apart from her own. Warm and real and solid and alive._

 _"Sometimes." A pause. "But this is where I want to be," she murmured, feeling Steve's grip on her tighten - a little protective, a little possessive._

 _"Sleep," he repeated against her temple._

 _And the rain kept on falling…_

xoox

The war was ugly and brutal, and at times, Steve couldn't help but think that mankind had lost its face completely, revealing something entirely monstrous underneath. Half the time, he felt like they was taking one step forward and two steps back, every victory leading to more damage.

More often than not, it felt like they'd already lost.

Steve knew that they would come after him, and when a few nights later they did, he was prepared.

He were done here anyway, it was time to do something with the information he possessed. The Germans decidedly did not like to share. And they certainly had no intention to let Steve get away with it. They saw him, and he had no doubt that it took them no time to single him out among the other officers who had access to the Commander's Office. After all, he was probably the only one who never returned.

"Come on, quiet," he urged Diana as they climbed down the fire escape while the SS officers pounded on his door, yelling for him to open up, the precious papers tucked under his coat and the rusty metal rough against his palms.

"Who are they, Steve?" She asked in a hushed whisper when he landed on the cobbled alley road, drawing her back until their backs were pressed against the cold brick wall.

His eyes darted up and down the alley. They would not be able to cross the city, not with the morning so near. The sky had already started to get pale-grey at the horizon, brushing against the rooftops. They would have to circle it around and hope to fly under the radar of the ever-present patrols. And after that – France.

"Some guys you don't want to meet in the middle of the night," Steve muttered, his eyes darting toward the opposite end of the alley as he started to run in that direction. It wouldn't take them long to break down the door and find the fire escape, but with any luck, he and Diana had a few minutes to put as much distance between them and the Germans as they could.

Behind him, a staccato of her footsteps was the only sound in the stillness of the night.

"But we could just…" She started, nearly bumping into him when Steve stopped at the end of the alley and peeked into the street, illuminated by a row of dim streetlights. "I could…"

 _Fight_ , he finished for her mentally.

"No," he shook his head, glancing at her. "Better avoid this kind of attention." He looked past her shoulder, the voices already spilling from the upper floor and into the narrow space between the old buildings. "For the time being," he added under his breath when she opened her mouth to protest. "Let's go."

If they could put a few streets between them and their pursuers, it could give them a chance to form an actual plan. The night raids were a regular thing, these people clearly knew what they were doing, catching their unsuspecting victims off-guard. Unfortunately for them, Steve saw it coming. He tried hard not to think of everyone who did.

"Steve."

In two blocks, there was a busy street, never empty even at this hour, especially with the bakeries and post offices often opening before dawn. In less than 5 minutes, the two of them could get lost in the crowd and be done with it.

Steve snapped his head up when she called his name just in time to see two black figures rounding the corner ahead of them, massive rifles clutched in their hands, their heads turning as they scanned the streets and porches, looking closely into every nook and crevice between the buildings. There were more of them than Steve anticipated, cold sweat trickling down his spine despite the winter chill.

 _Shit_.

"Let me…" Diana started, her hand reaching for the sword fastened behind her back, her shield already clutched in her hand, eyes darting between the alley they had left a minute ago and the two men walking fast in their direction, fading in and out of sight as they moved from one street light to another.

There was no time for another plan, really. There were too many of them.

He turned to Diana, his hand sliding around her waist. "Do you trust me?" Steve murmured and then drew her to him without waiting for an answer, his lips capturing hers, fingers curling around a handful of her cloak, holding her close. She stilled for a moment, surprised, and for a brief second, Steve was overcome with a sudden panic – _mistake, mistake, mistake!_ – certain that he would be the first one to be tossed ten feet into the air. But then Diana leaned into him, relaxing into his touch; her hand found his cheek and slipped around to grip the hair at the nape of his neck.

The world fell away, shattering against the sheer force of _Jesus Christ, finally!_ The German officers walked past them, their heavy boots hitting the pavement with enough force to leave dents in the cheap concrete. Through the blood rush in his ears, Steve heard a faint laughter and a low whistling meant for the two of them, but by then, it hardly mattered. She tasted of warmth and memories, and the sunny mornings on the banks of the River Thames and laughter and light, and he would walk through a thousand wars if he had to just to have this moment back, here, now, his fingers carding through Diana's hair as her lips parted for him, deepening the kiss.

"I think they're gone," Steve murmured soundlessly a long while later, breathless and dizzy, leaning his forehead against her temple for a moment as his heart raced ahead and their breaths puffed out in small clouds.

"What?" Diana looked up, her gaze confused a slightly glazed over. Even in near complete darkness, he could see the colour on her cheeks, and it was pretty damn impossible not to trace her face with his fingers, brush away that unruly curl that kept falling on her forehead.

"They were looking for one man, not for a couple," he breathed out. "They have never seen you, I don't think so."

Her hand dropped to his chest, his skin instantly missing the warmth of her touch. "Right."

She drew back, stepping away from him, and looked away.

And maybe Steve saw too much into something that wasn't actually there, but for just a moment, he could have sworn that a flicker of disappointment flashed across her features, gone before he was sure it was there at all.

He didn't allow himself to dwell on it.

xoox

One nameless village after another, infrequent phone calls with his commanding officer and the rain. The world looked like it was made of grime and sadness and blood and pain, a hopeless colour that left Steve drained and weary, and a thousand years old. A few days on the road, and Steve was starting to feel like his bones were straining under the weight of the things he couldn't fix.

"I'll take the first watch," Diana said from the other side of a campfire, pulling him out of his thoughts.

There were close to the Austria's border, not more than a mile away from what used to be a village only yesterday. The air still smelled of fire and dust and everything Steve chose not to think about when they reached it even though the rain that fell the precious night dulled their intensity. Tried not to think of the life filling it before the bombs wiped the houses off the face of the earth. Diana didn't say anything when they passed it, keeping close to the forest in case someone stayed back to loot whatever was left of it, only her expression froze, grief-stricken for what she couldn't stop.

"You barely sleep." Steve noted – a questions that wasn't a question. On the other side of the dancing flames, Diana's face was streaked with shadows, barely recognizable and entirely unreadable.

It had been a couple of weeks now – a couple of weeks of dancing around one another, pointedly not talking about what happened between them after the first war, pretending, that weird thing hanging between them – unsaid words, unasked questions, the things he wanted to know but didn't dare ask, half-scared that she would answer, half-worried that she wouldn't – didn't exist. Pretending that the kiss in Berlin never happened.

It was odd enough that she hadn't left. There was nothing in this godforsaken land for her, nothing worth fighting for. Steve kept asking himself what was it that kept _him_ going, but the answers never came, and moving forward felt better than doing nothing at all. And so when Diana followed him, he didn't question it. There was comfort to being around that calmed the storms raging inside him even though it hurt as hell half the time. He wondered if this was better or worse than having none of her at all, but this kind of thinking was the path that could lead him to madness.

"They never go away," Diana said after a long pause, her voice so soft that the sound of it was almost swallowed by the crackling of the flames licking the dry twigs. "The dreams. The memories."

Steve pushed another log into the fire, sending a burst of sparks into the chilly night air.

He looked up, wishing she would look back at him, wishing that he could read her, and somewhat grateful that he couldn't, uncertain of what he would see. A reflection of his own life, perhaps.

"Don't let them get you," he muttered, staring into the flames, his voice hollow. He wanted to ask her more, get her to tell him what was it that made her push him away the way she did, take them both apart and put them together, but this time the right way, making sure that all the parts fit. Instead, he uncurled from his crouch and sat down on the trunk of the fallen tree across from Diana, only now noticing that he was shaking from the cold and adrenaline still coursing through his veins. His eyes locked with hers. "It's what they want, but you can't let them win."

"How do you make them stop?" Her gaze on him was almost palpable, making Steve's whole body prickle.

"You don't." He couldn't lie to her. Never did before and wasn't about to start now. "You become friends with them. And hope they'll let you be."

Neither of them slept that night.

xoox

Paris was in disarray.

Under German occupation, it was a ghost of a place it used to be, and there was some cruel irony, Steve thought, to how the last time he'd been there was with Diana as well.

In his mind, the trees along Champs Elysees were in bloom and the cool air was filled with the smell of roasted chestnuts sold on every corner. _("Why would you eat this?"_ Diana asked when he bought a bag of scalding-hot chestnuts for them, and Steve laughed. _"Just try one."_ ) Her hand was warm in his as they walked the narrow back streets and climbed up the Montmartre hill, all the way to the Basilica of the Sacre Coeur and their stolen kisses tasted of promises and something bigger than the world itself.

"You know, people call Paris the most romantic city on earth," Steve noted, standing behind Diana on the balcony of the Basilica, his hands resting on the stone railing on either side of her and the wind kept throwing her hair is his face with every angry gust. Up here, it was malicious and moody, and he moved closer to shield her from it and keep her warm.

Diana snorted, her eyes scanning rows of grey houses stacked along winding streets like domino pieces. "I suppose it means that mankind doesn't know what _romantic_ is." She turned to him, one eyebrow arched, her face so close that their noses touched.

Steve smirked, amused, before leaned in to kiss her. "I suppose you can show me."

But that was then, in another lifetime, in another universe where they made promises they meant to keep and the world was a different place.

Now, the city of dreams was grey and bleak and faceless, filled with screaming and gunfire and blood. It no longer smelled of flowers, but of dust and fear and smoke. Now, he was running – must have been, his own footsteps inexplicably loud and resonating through his body, his lungs screaming for air, even though the whole world seemed to have stopped. Like in a dream, Steve thought if a little absently as his hands moved on the will of their own, pulling the trigger of the heavy rifle, the kickback from every shot pushing painfully into his shoulder, and then reloading it again and again until his fingers were numb. Like moving through water.

The plan formed along the way. After 4 years, France was suffocating under German occupation, running out of supplies and hope. However, the German army was starting to get desperate in the past months, their progress not as rapid as it was expected in the beginning, their losses greater than anticipated and the resistance of the opposing armies far more fierce than they could ever imagine. They let their guards down, Paris being their weakest post – or so Hitler referred to it in one of the letters that was never meant to end up in the hands of a spy.

If they could liberate France, the whole defence strategy of the allies would change.

And there was only one person who could truly make it happen.

He stopped, pushed in the back and to the side by someone running behind him, the blood rush in his ears muting the screams and angry yells and the crumbling of the stone walls somewhere in the distance.

Mayhem. There was no other word for it.

Steve inhaled sharply, hungrily, and turned around, his eyes scanning the crowd in panic, soldiers and civilians, two armies with only one victory ahead of them. All or nothing this time. Paris was not giving up again.

And then he saw her… The lightning snaking along Diana's bracelets, her eyes closed for a moment as though she was calling something from deep inside her, a figure of utter stillness in the chaos that couldn't stop moving, so bright it was almost impossible to look at her without going blind. He didn't remember seeing her do this before, on the night when he died, but he must have, he was thinking now. He must have because the vision was familiar in the way only a memory could be, his own fingertips prickling as though the air around them was charged.

Someone fired at her, and he watched the bullet fly and then disintegrate before it was a chance to reach her, her armour reflecting the light of the faraway explosion. She was a force, infinite power, a goddess made of light, and when she snapped her eyes open, the army closing in on her flew away like a pile of leaves blown off by the wind. The aftershock of it threw Steve against the wall, knocking all air out of him. He gasped, more surprised than hurt, and grit his teeth, his hands slick with sweat gripping his rifle so tight that his knuckles went white.

He aimed and fired again, his mind blank. If they could make it through the next _second-minute-hour_ , then maybe all of this wasn't in vain. Maybe they still stood a chance.

If the French army was surprised by the sudden reinforcements, they didn't seem to care, moving forward, determined and – for the first time in years – hopeful.

"Steve!"

A flash of something bright darted past him, Diana's lasso knocking a soldier that had a barrel of his gun aimed at Steve's head off his feet. He span around and hit the man with the stock of his rifle. Then nodded at her a silent _thank you_ , their eyes locking momentarily.

"Diana!" He yelled, trying to be heard over the sound of gunfire and nodded his head toward the dome of the Pantheon looming ahead of them. "There!"

Almost done…

Almost…

Later, there were cheers and happy tears, and the songs Steve couldn't recognize, their words morphing into the sound that meant happiness, and somehow, it was enough.

He knew he had to make contact with the British, make himself known and accounted for, but the night was deep and black – he'd long stopped counting the hours, and the celebrations around him were intoxicating in the way that only undiluted happiness could be. The city that spend the past 4 years suffocating under the siege could finally breathe again.

"Steve…"

He turned around to see Diana make his way toward him through the crowd, nodding absently at anyone trying to thank her but not slowing down, her eyes fixed on him. The crowd parted before her without even noticing they were doing it, and he watched her move through it in awe and relief. And then she was standing right before him, her hair wild and her chest still heaving as if she could barely catch her breath, and her streetlamps making the star in her tiara glow like it was made of gold.

And then she was smiling at him because they did it again, a little tentative, a little hopeful, her eyes glinting. And someone tried to push a bottle of something that, judging by its smell, was meant to burn straight through a person's stomach into Steve's hand but he was pretty caught up in being too damn happy to see her again to care.

And then her fingers were on his face like she needed to make sure that he was real, and he was breathing her in, and Jesus Christ, he missed her so bad that if he let go of her now, he would probably turn to ashes right there and then.

"Are you okay?" Steve mouthed softly.

She nodded, almost imperceptibly, her nose brushing against his cheek. "Come with me."

xoox

They stumbled into the room, tripping over each other's feet and the threshold, Steve's arms closing around Diana just in time to break their imminent fall, her breath catching, a sharp gasp against his mouth, as her hands gripped the collar of his coat.

The corridors of a small inn that opened its doors to the soldiers amidst the celebration smelled faintly of tobacco and cheap cologne, but inside the room it was all furniture polish and clean sheets and a somewhat stale air of the space that hadn't been aired enough. He didn't care. All he could feel, all he could think of was her, and her mouth on his, and his hands on her body, his heart hammered against the metal parts of her armour.

Steve broke the kiss, breathing hard, his chest heaving and his thumb running slow circles over her cheek.

Diana's fingers curled around one of his wrists, her breath warm on his skin. Her palm on his jaw, she tilted her face, finding his mouth with hers again.

"I'm sorry—sorry for having left the way I did."

"Don't," he muttered, the sound of his own voice drowned in the _thump-thump-thump_ of his heartbeat. "Diana…"

"You wouldn't touch me," she murmured, shaking her head. "Would hardly even look at me."

His hands framing her face, Steve leaned his forehead against hers. "If I did, I would never want to stop."

"Please." She kissed him again, hungrily, desperately. He could taste fear and the salt of her tears he didn't notice until now on her mouth, the need that resonated inside him, the missing that mirrored his own, his own hands skimming over her arms and around her body of their own accord.

Jesus, he wanted her so bad.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, pushing his jacket down his shoulders and tugging at the buttons of her shirt, Steve's lips peppering her face with small kisses until there were no tears left, until he didn't know where his breath ended and hers began.

His fingers slid over the leather and metal of her armour, smooth under his touch, softened by the years of wear and yet as impeccable as the first time he laid his eyes on it in 1918, the memory so clear like no time had passed then.

His jacket hit the floor, Diana's hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, frantically and awkwardly in her haste. A low growl formed in Steve's throat, something primal and out of control when her hands ran over his bare chest, her breathing short on his mouth, against his neck, everywhere of his skin. His focus tunneled, his attention zeroing on the almost electric zaps of desire crazing through his body, the need to feel her, be in her, nearly unbearable.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh as his fingers worked on undoing to clasps on her boots, eyes shut and chest heaving. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pulled him to her, her eyes black and wild with want, her mouth finding his, hands tugging at his hair, running over his shoulders.

"God, I missed you," Steve rasped, nuzzling into her neck, her hair, a zing of pure fire shooting up and through him mixed with pure elation over being alive. Her nose bumped into his, a little playful, a little seductive. Not that he needed another nudge.

"I was scared," Diana whispered, her fingers threading through his hair, and he could hear the unsaid words that were just as loud. Of the fear he also felt but didn't know how to define.

And then she was inside and around him, everywhere, too much and too little and never enough, his whole universe. He fitted his mouth to hers, swallowing her whimper that morphed into a moan, a fistful of sheets bunched in his hand, his fingers moving over her back and along her thing, pressing it into his.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, dropping soft kisses along her neck when his hips snapped up, filling her to the brim, and her breath hitched audibly, her whole body clenching around him and nearly undoing him in the best way. Didn't mean to hurt her…

"No, don't stop." Her eyes dropped shut as she arched into him, giving in to immense pleasure.

A few crazy collisions, and they settled into a rhythm as easy as breathing. Faster and higher, and over the edge, her hands digging into his flesh, guiding him and following him, breathless and shuddering in his arms. Perfectly here and perfectly _his_.

His awareness blurred, Steve's hand slid down her side, along her abdomen. His thumb slipped between their bodies, finding the sweet spot, and she stilled beneath him, coming completely undone with a muffled cry into his shoulder, dissolving into the searing pleasure and taking him with her as a lightning of bliss tore through Steve as the universe exploded around him in myriads of colours, Diana's name on his lips and her body wound tightly around him. Perfection.

"Don't go," she murmured a few long moments later, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his neck when Steve tried to shift his weight off of her.

"I'll crush you," he whispered back, kissing whatever skin he could reach, waiting for his breath to find itself, his head spinning and his mind empty and his body completely liquefied.

She laughed softly at that, turning to look at him, amused. "I doubt that." Which made his grin widen because she probably had a point there. Which made him think of _her_ pinning _him_ down, whatever the circumstances. Which was a very nice idea, all things considered. Her fingers pushed his damp hair from his forehead, trailing along his cheek. "I missed you, too."

xoox

It was like no time had passed at all, his feelings for her as strong as they'd ever been. Like not only his body got stuck in time but the rest of the world did as well. Like there could be nothing else for them, not now, and not ever.

Infinite.

Steve was sitting with his back leaning against the headboard of the bed, staring at his hands resting in his lap like they held answers to all questions in the universe when Diana walked out of the bathroom, his half-buttoned shirt hanging loosely from her frame.

 _("Why would I do that?" She asked him the first time he suggested she wore a piece of his clothing instead of putting on her own garments._

 _"Well, it's what people do, sometimes… after…" he squirmed, biting back a laugh._

 _"After they make love?" She offered helpfully, one eyebrow arched, and Steve chuckled and leaned in to kiss her on the temple._

 _"Yes, after they make love."_ )

"Steve?"

"What am I?" He asked in a hollow voice without looking up.

Diana stepped toward the bed and climbed onto the mattress, crawling over the rumpled sheets to him; kissed him on the shoulder and rested her forehead against it when he didn't turn to her, listening to him breathe softly. "You're Steve Trevor," she whispered. "You're loyal. Compassionate. Brave. The bravest man I've ever met."

When he didn't respond, Diana shifted, moving closer to him and tossing her leg over his. For a long moment, she just sat in his lap, her hands splayed on his chest, with only a thin sheet draped over his lap between them, and the ticking of the clock on the dresser uncharacteristically loud as the world shrunk to a few feet of space around them. She cupped her palms over his cheeks, and Steve had no choice but to look at her, eyes dark and stormy. His hands slid up her back, pulling her closer, his fingers pushing through her hair.

"You're _my_ Steve," she whispered, tracing the lines of his face with her fingertips – down is cheek, along his jaw, over his brow.

"If you're going to disappear again, I'd prefer you to do it sooner rather than later," Steve murmured.

She leaned in, their faces nearly touching. _Awfully close_. "Do you want me to leave?"

He looped a strand of hair behind her ear, his eyes searching her features. "I never wanted it. Not then, and not now."

"I thought I was doing the right thing for you." Her voice was quiet, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. "I didn't think-" Her lips curved as their eyes met. "I didn't think you would be so impossible to get out of my mind." She paused, her smile slipping away. "I never meant to hurt you."

He swallowed. In the dim light of the reading lamp on the nightstand beside him, she looked luminous, almost ethereal. Steve ran his thumb over her cheekbone. "Does it not bother you?"

"Does what not bother me?"

"That you're…" He cleared his throat and then let out a humorless laugh. "That you're _you_ , a daughter of Zeus, and I'm—I'm only a human, if even that."

Her face softened. "You never were _only_ a human, Steve Trevor," she whispered, brushing a feather-light kiss to his cheek. "But maybe you could…" another one to the corner of his mouth, "… show me the differences…" a soft touch to his lips, "… between us. Just…" her voice dropped, "…to make sure."

He could taste amusement mixed with simmering heat rising inside them both on her, feel her melt into him, languid and soft, sweet weight in his arms. Her breath caught when he flicked his fingers, easily undoing the two buttons that kept his shirt in place, palms sliding underneath it. Steve tightened his grip on her, rolling them both over and tucking her beneath him, capturing her giggle with a kiss.

Outside, someone was signing the French anthem, loudly and completely off-key, and when Diana's arms snaked around his neck, he thought he would fight a million wars just so he could come home to her.

xoox

"Steve, what is it?"

Diana glanced at him standing by the window the next morning, the grey light of an overcast day filling the room. Her armour affixed on her body, as familiar and as comfortable as a second skin, she picked up the bracelets from where they fell on the floor the precious night but the stillness of him drew her in, her gaze lingering on his silhouette against a rectangle of light as it followed the line of his shoulders and the taught muscles of his back, his hair still tousles even though he did try to smooth it down at the sink earlier. The memory made her lips tug up at the corners and her heart ache with tenderness.

"It's quiet," he responded absently, his shirt clutched in his hand, the whole of idea of dressing seemingly forgotten for the time being. (She wouldn't mind if he only wore pants for as long as they both lived. Or nothing at all, for that matter. The man had exceptional physique.) "I almost forgot what it could be like."

She put the bracelets down on the side of the bed and walked over across the room toward him, arms sliding around his waist from behind, his bare skin warm against the exposed parts of hers. They had the time now, she thought. A tiny bit of it, perhaps, but still.

"It's not over," he added softly, as though reading her mind. She could almost hear him think. He let go of the shirt he was holding, allowing it to over the back of the chair and his hands closed around hers, thumbs running slowly over his wrists. "Not yet. I'm not sure how it can ever be."

"I'm sorry about these," Diana murmured, brushing a kiss to his shoulder where a few red marks left by her nails stood in stark contrast against his skin, running toward his shoulder-blades and along his ribs.

Steve turned to her, glancing down his back, his confusion turning instantly to recognition. He grinned like a cat that caught a canary. "I'm not," he informed her, looking so ridiculously smug that she would have rolled her eyes had she not been deliriously, unapologetically happy and barely able to contain it. "That was the part that I liked quite a bit, actually."

She arched an eyebrow in response, struggling to keep a straight face. "I'll remember that." A pause. "Did you sleep at all?" Her voice dropped, Steve's breathing steady and soothing against her chest, and easily the only thing she wanted to feel.

He was awake before her, fatigue hiding in the lines around his eyes, behind the veneer of the smile that greeted her, the side of his bed cold enough to imply that it had been a while, and in the brief moment between sleep and wakefulness, with her mind trapped in this odd, undefined state, she was overcome with fear. _You can't save everyone_ , Steve told her on that day in Belgium, before she crossed No Man's Land, and in the light of everything that followed, she couldn't help but hear it as, _You can't save me_.

She wouldn't ever forget that she never did.

"You know, the last time we—" Steve stopped himself with a sharp inhale. I woke up alone and you were gone." He shook his head.

"Steve…"

He let out a long breath and turned around in the circle of her arms, his hand anchored on her side and his fingers brushing her hair back from her face. She leaned into his touch when he ran his knuckled down her cheek.

"Look-" He started.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said – not a promise but a fact.

Steve swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I can't ask you to stay."

"You're not. I can make my own decisions." She tore her gaze away from his, her fingers tracing a faint scar just over just left collarbone. "This is new."

He glanced down. "Things happened. It's been a while," he muttered

"I dreamed about you, every night, for years." Diana let out a small laugh that came out almost rueful, slightly disbelieving. "I would wake up to a rumble of an airplane, except the sky would be empty, or to the sound of your voice calling my name." Her thumb followed the line of his jaw. "I didn't come looking for you but I wanted to. More than anything."

 _Things happened_. She didn't want to miss any more of them.

"Well, we might need to get a thing or two out of the way," Steve responded at last, "but we could make it work, perhaps. If you want to."

Her face split into a smile so wide she thought it might crack in half. " _If_ I want to?" She echoed.

A long time ago, her mother taught her that everything of value came with a price. There was pain in becoming a good warrior, loss in winning a war, letting go of some parts of yourself in growth. Whatever the price there was for being with Steve, she'd pay it a thousand times over.

He laughed – an open, infectious sound that lit her up from the inside.

When the bomb hit the building a few moments later – a parting gift from the Germans – and the force of the blast wave tore them from one another, the last thing Diana felt before the blackness closed over her was Steve's fingers slipping from her grasp.

 _Not again_.

 **To be continued...**

* * *

 **A/N:**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note** : You guys are so amazing! Thank you for all the love :) I do hope you're enjoying the ride so far; I have some insane stuff planned for this story, so... I'm doing my best to keep the updates frequent, I promise!

* * *

 _T_ _The fire in the sky is the brightest thing she's ever seen. It hurts to look at it but she can't turn away. She watches it grow bigger, brighter, consuming the darkness of the night. Trapped under several sheets of metal pressing her into concrete, she can't breathe, can't move, but it's her fear that truly paralyzes Diana, the terror that keeps her captive._ _  
_

 _Her chest tightens. She wills herself to wake up. Sure this can't be real._

 _Above her, the air is frigid. It smells of acrid smoke. Somewhere to the right from her, she hears panicked yelling. Ares is close by – she can feel him rather that see him, and for a moment, she remembers why she is here. Yet, the thought is short-lived, fleeting. Her gaze is locked on the fire far above her, and somewhere there—_

 _A scream pierces the night, deafening, full of pain, inhuman. Nothing like anything she's ever heard before, and the sound of it rips her soul in half, splinters her heart, tears right through her. It takes Diana a moment to realize that she's the one who is screaming, her vision blurred with tears and smoke. She can't breathe, can't think, can't be._

 _"Let me do it. Whatever it is, I can do it."_

 _She closes her eyes and turns away, struggling to inhale, her chest heaving under her metal trap, her ribs protesting every move._

 _"There's more to the world than this, you know," Steve told her the previous night, gesturing vaguely around them, his voice soft, mellow somehow. She's never seen him like this before._

 _He pulled her closer, running his hand along her spine, and her whole body angled to curve around him. She smiled, leaned into him, listening to his heartbeat, her fingers tracing the lines of his body in slow, possessive touches. There were questions she wanted to ask, so many of them. And it wasn't just her curiosity that kept her awake despite the weight of the day and the warmth of Steve's body lulling her to sleep – they needed to get some rest; she didn't know what time it was, the very concept of tracking it still alien to her, but the dawn wasn't far away, and there was another battle on the other side of it. Yet, she didn't want him to stop taking, the sound of his voice washing over her in soothing waves._

 _She can still hear his whisper, feel the electric touch of his fingers to her skin – careful, gentle, but not at all unsure. Can feel his hands in her hair and the taste his mouth of hers. And that bright dot in the pitch-black sky can't be him, can't be, can't be…_

 _xoox_

Diana came to with a low groan, her body pressed down with something rough and heavy, a sharp edge digging into her shoulder-blade, holding her body in the kind of angle that made it hard to move. She tried to take a breath, but her ribs screamed in protest and she squeezed her eyes shut with a sharp gasp, waiting for the pounding in her skull to recede. Her ears were ringing, softening the sounds of the world like she was trapped underwater.

Someone was crying, a sorry, aching sound. A siren broke through the fog in her mind, but it was too far away, too—

 _Steve_.

No.

Her fingers curled into fists, scraping over brick wall that was nothing but a piece of rubble now, a sob rising in her throat – pain and panic mixing together into something hot and consuming.

"Steve…"

She strained her arms, pushing herself up, brick and stone falling back, making everything around her shake, echoing somewhere beneath her as a pile of what had once been a building shifted. Diana shook her head, her vision clearing, the throbbing in her body slowly ebbing back.

The dust hadn't settled around her yet, stinging her eyes, clogging her throat.

She inhaled sharply and coughed, calling his name.

There were people gathering around, the sounds getting louder like a blurry picture zooming into focus.

She stood up and looked around, first in confusion, then more frantically, more urgently, trying to see past the destruction, shaky on unsteady feet.

A man with a crushed skull was the first one she saw, her chest caving in momentarily. But his hair was darker, and even though she couldn't see his face, it wasn't him, not Steve. Relief mixed with guilt flooded her mind. Surely it was wrong to be glad about someone else's death, but in that moment, she didn't care.

The police were already there, ordering everyone to stay back. More soldiers, too. They were calling for her, but Diana ignored them, too busy looking for—

 _Steve_.

He was lying under a block of concrete, half-hidden, and it took her a minute too long to locate him, her mind swimming by the time she finally spotted him.

Diana fell on her knees next to him and rolled him carefully to his back, cradling his head in her lap, hands running over his arms, his chest, skimming over his bronze skin, taking in the new scrapes and bruises, as well as the old scars that she knew better than anyone else.

"Steve, please…" Her trembling fingers touched face, running over his dust-covered cheeks. "No, you can't-" her throat closed up. "Wake up, Steve. Please…" There was a bad-looking gush on his forehead, dark blood starting to cake over it, its metallic smell permeating her senses. "You have to."

A scream bubbled up deep inside her, the pain wanting out, but her throat constricted and it came out as a low whimper. She felt like she was about to crack and fall to pieces, and maybe this time they wouldn't fit back together. There were only so many times one could be hurt until they could no longer repair themselves, and she couldn't bear the thought of losing him, again, not after everything they'd been through to get where they were now.

"Steve… stay with me. Please, stay with me." She leaned closer to him, her tears falling on his face, leaving streaks on his skin as she felt her very soul tear to shreds. Her fingers pushed his hair back from his forehead, carefully, gently. "You can't—we made a deal, Steve Trevor…" The words tumbled out of her mouth as she brushed a kiss to his temple, her voice nothing but a hushed, broken whisper laced with tears.

How many times could she watch him die before she herself ceased to exist?

"And a deal a is promise," Steve echoed faintly, his eyes fluttering open with effort. "And a promise is unbreakable."

Diana froze, her eyes snapping open. He winced, blinking away the dust and coughing, her palm on his cheek and his chest moving, struggling to take a proper breath.

"Steve…"

"God, what happened to—" He grimaced and raised his hand only to drop it back down with a surprised hiss. "Have you noticed… that we never use the doors anymore? It's either windows or—" he coughed again. "Or this."

She laughed, a short, choked sound, disbelief mixed with relief, and pulled him closer, her heart beating somewhere in her throat.

"Ow!" Steve stiffened, his face contorted with pain.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Diana murmured, kissing his brow, her fingers stroking his face, his hair, unable to stop smiling through tears. "Don't move. It's going to be okay, you're okay. I promise you."

"You know, we need to stop meeting like this," he muttered, slipping into blackness again.

xoox

He was dreaming.

For the first time in two decades, he was dreaming not of blood and loss but of a young boy with perpetually skinned knees and a gap-toothed smile whose hair was always tousled by the wind. There was an old biplane on his grandparents' farm, broken beyond repair but too heavy for the truck for haul it off to a scrap yard. The very same one that his father flew until he could no longer kick the life into it.

The biplane was rusty, the yellow paint peeling off its cabin and wings, and by the time Steve Rockwell Trevor was old enough to climb inside, all the controls had gone missing as well, taken out to replace something or other. Steve loved it more than anything else in the world - not just the sum of its parts that formed the wings and tail and a slippery fake-leather seat but all the places inside his head where the plane could take him. All the places that weren't middle-of-nowhere rural Midwest where he was stuck every summer. The places that _mattered_.

Sitting inside that rusty thing that was good for nothing, not even to hide from the rain, his feet too short to reach the space where the pedals used to be, Steve would imagine soaring into the sky and circling over the barley fields and the endless expanse of flat land, peppered with farm houses and barns and herds of apathetic cows and sheep, all the way toward the cities on the horizon. He would touch the sky and let the sun decide his course. And he would be free.

There was an attic in their house – a dark, eerie place with low, sloped ceiling, stuffed with boxes and broken furniture his grandfather never got to fixing, and it was the one place where no one could find him if he wanted to escape. On the dusty floor, Steve would make paper planes, and imagine, imagine, imagine that _one day_ …

He woke up slowly, his mind foggy, the dream clinging to his brain like a cobweb, pulling him back in and pushing him out.

"Angel," he rasped, his mouth too dry to speak, when his eyes focused enough to see a woman with black hair spilling over her shoulders sitting beside him, looking more like an apparition than anything else.

 _Diana_.

"They told me you might be delusional," she shook her head, smiling softly.

"What…" he licked his dry lips and swallowed, trying to find his voice, his throat raw and every inch of his body aching. "Paris." His heartbeat stuttered, sprinting into a race as his memories came rushing back in. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" He tried to sit up, but the room tilted and swayed around him, a jolt of white-hot pain shooting from his shoulder and down his arm. Steve clenched his teeth, stifling a groan.

"Don't move. Steve, I'm okay. Everything is fine." Her hands were on his shoulders, pushing him back into the pillows, her face hovering over his. He relaxed under her touch, soothed instantly.

She smoothed down his hair and stroked his cheek, her skin pleasantly cool against his.

"Where are we?" He asked quietly as Diana sat down on the chair next to his bed, his eyes darting from her face to the ceiling to her face again, and to the window, and back to Diana as his mind started to clear, somewhat.

He was in a hospital.

The realization was surprising, almost shocking, the pieces of a puzzle not quite fitting together. And yet, the ever-present smell of disinfectants mixed with the whiteness all around him and the rumble of voices that buzzed like a beehive on the other side of the plain door were unmistakable and impossible to ignore.

"London," she responded.

His eyebrow quirked in curiosity. "London," Steve echoed. "And… how did we get here?"

She let out a short laugh, and it was pretty damn hard not to notice that even though she was putting effort into keep the smile in place, her lips were quivering ever so slightly as worry pooled in her dark eyes that looked like she hadn't slept in a long time. Or like she cried. Neither thought sat right with him.

"You probably don't want to know," Diana said, clasping his hand between her palms and kissing his fingers. There was a tiny frown creasing her forehead, and his hands itched to smooth it away. She was so beautiful.

He missed her, too. Missed her the way he tended to even when she was right there next to him, even when he didn't know that he did. And seeing her now was the only thing that mattered, her gaze tired, but also full of start. Infinite worlds and the entirety of the universe in the eyes of the woman who saved him in more ways than one.

Steve offered her a crooked smile. "I probably don't," he breathed out. God knew he would find out eventually, but right now it felt like too much. "Are you really okay?"

She rested her cheek against the knot of their hands. "I am, I promise."

She'd swapped her armour for a much less conspicuous skirt and blouse, and the feeling inside him was trepidation mixed with panic. There was a gaping hole in Steve's mind between the morning in Paris filled with softness and the warmth of her body against his, and now, and he couldn't look away from her. Losing her became such a natural thing it started to terrify him to the core.

He wasn't joking when he admitted to not sleeping much because he feared he might wake up without her – there was an even-present undercurrent of fear coursing beneath his skin, a constant tug in the pit of his stomach that she was going to – _POOF!_ – disappear. She'd always felt like a dream, like something entirely unattainable. A mirage that could disappear before his eyes. Even before, in the time right after the first war, he would lie awake at night as Diana slept next to him, unable to believe his luck and whatever providence made their paths cross.

His chest felt tight at the thought of not having this. Her. Them. Even now, he almost expected her to vanish like a billow of smoke.

"I love your smile," Steve murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper and his fingers running over her knuckles. "You have the most beautiful smile in the world."

"I thought I lost you." Diana's whispered. "When I couldn't find you, I thought…" She swallowed and pursed her lips together. "There was a man there. A dead man, and it thought it was you, and-"

"I'm not going anywhere." He pulled their hands to him and brushed a kiss to her fingers. "A promise, remember?" There were words, perhaps, to describe how hollow he felt for doing this to her, to making her feel this way, but he didn't know them, and all he could do was to hold on and hope that she understood. "What happened?" He asked after a few moments to break the silence that felt like it could shatter and cut them with its sharp edges if they allowed it. "It's a bit fuzzy."

She relaxed momentarily, leaning closer to him a little, propped on her elbows on his mattress, her features softening. "The bomb… You got lucky when one of the walls didn't collapse, it sheltered you."

"And, ah…" Steve's gaze shifted to the newly noticed bandage running across his chest. He looked at her quizzically, trying to grab a hold of the thread of reality that seemed to be slipping away from him.

"Your collarbone is broken," she added, which probably explained the way everything was so blurry around him and why the words that he meant to keep locked deep inside him were tumbling out of his mouth without his say in it. Morphine, he guessed. It made sense. "And you have-"

"A concussion," another voice finished for her.

Diana turned around, and Steve's gaze shifted past her shoulder.

It wasn't that much of a surprise to see Etta standing in the doorway, a busy hallway bustling with commotion behind her back, regarding him with mild exasperation. She was in her late 50's now, if Steve was not mistaken, but her eyes were the same, sizing him up in that odd way that was somewhat apprehensive but not as shocked as he expected, and Steve wondered in the back of his mind just how long she'd been around, what Diana had told her.

"I can't believe you never said anything me," Etta threw her hands up, stepping into the room, and his lips quirked a little.

She must have had to hold it back for quite a while.

Still. He gave Diana a reproachful look.

"I had to call her," Diana said, nonchalant.

"You're impossible," Etta rolled her eyes, and just for a second, Steve thought she would smack him. God knew he probably deserved it.

She didn't, though. Instead, she gave him a long, contemplative once-over, curious now more than anything else.

"I didn't think-" Steve started, still finding it pretty hard to keep his thoughts from scattering around.

"Obviously," Etta interjected with a snort. She huffed through her nose, and shook her head, making Steve feel like a naughty child who got caught stealing cookies from a jar before dinner. "Well," hands on her hips, she regarded him without much sympathy, "now that you're awake and quite clearly not dying, your girl here needs to eat something.

"Oh, no, I don't," Diana started to protest.

"No, go," Steve insisted, his eyelids already dropping and his brain feeling uncomfortably heavy in his skull.

"Poor thing was stuck here for ever," Etta added, and muttered, "God only knows what you've done to deserve such devotion." And then, as an afterthought, "Not that I want to know anything about _that_."

"Go," Steve repeated, his grip on Diana's hand loosening. "I'll be right here."

xoox

He was asleep when Diana returned, her heart feeling lighter by the moment when he eyes fixed on his form, his chest rising and falling slowly under the blanket, his hair ruffled and his features relaxed. The early evening light coloured the room in hues of purple, softening the edges of reality.

She lowered down on the side of the bed and reached over to brush his hair back from his forehead, careful not to wake Steve up. He didn't stir, though. Didn't so much as move aside from leaning a little into her touch, aware of her presence even in his sleep, and this smallest tilt of his head filled her with so much affection she could barely stand it.

Earlier, she didn't have it in her to tell him that when she found him, his chest was crushed, his pulse barely there, his body broken beyond repair. The wall that she claimed saved him had actually crushed him under its weight.

When she found him, he wasn't breathing.

Until he was.

Until they were here and the men in white coats who claimed being the best healers around were promising her that he wasn't in any danger. That there was nothing that they couldn't fix about him. And she didn't know what to make of it.

Until she was calling Etta, unable to find the words to explain what happened.

He didn't need to know that. Diana wished she didn't either, the image of it still raw and fresh and frighteningly vivid in her mind.

 _You're fearless_ , Steve told her once, a long time ago, and at the time, she laughed it off, insisting that everyone was scared of something. At the time, she didn't quite figure out yet that the one thing that terrified her the most was the chaos of his world. There were so very few rules – to life, to war, to anything, really. She was not used to experiencing loss. She was not used to how fragile lives were.

Not as far as he was concerned.

His eyes fluttered opened slowly; he blinked a few times, waiting for his vision to adjust. "Hey."

Diana smiled and shook her head. "Sleep."

"I'm not tired," Steve slurred, making something warm unfurl in her chest.

"Liar."

He chuckled. "Never. Not to you."

She refused to think about being one now.

"I found this." She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out his watch.

It was in the pocket of his jacket that she found in the rubble later on when she went looking for her shield and the lasso buried under a pile of brick and concrete, trying not to think of how breakable everything around her was, how there could still be bodies trapped under the collapsed building. There was nothing she could do for them now, but the pain for the loss was squeezing her chest still. Merely thinking of losing Steve was unbearable, and her heart ached for those who the deceased – _killed_ – left behind.

Steve's good hand closed around the watch, his thumb running along the leather strap and over its white face. "Still ticking."

Diana leaned down to press a kiss just below his hairline, where the cut that had been bleeding so profusely a few days ago that she thought it would kill him was nothing but a pink line that would turn into a scar before he knew it. His cheeks were covered with 2-day stubble, and he looked tired even when he was asleep, world-weary in a way she hadn't seen him before.

But so very familiar. So very _hers_.

All her life, she'd known only one home – a place that held the memories dear to her heart. But no one told her before that a home didn't need to have walls. Sometimes it needed to have a crooked smile and a heartbeat and the eyes so blue she was drowning in them every time she allowed herself to forget to hold on. Sometimes, it was that simple.

 _Still ticking_ , she thought as he drifted off again.

xoox

 _"At least here… I'm free."_

 _Steve's jacket held the warmth of his body and smelled faintly of male and soap and smoke, and Diana wrapped it tighter around her shoulders as she watched the Chief poke at the fire, sending handfuls of sparks into the air, his posture relaxed to a degree. As much as it could be in the middle of something that was tearing the whole world apart._

 _The Evening Hate was a very appropriate name for the midnight fire, she thought if a little absently, equally dumbfounded and awed by the men's ability to sleep when the ground was shaking beneath them. Charlie wandered off to cool down but Sameer was snoring quietly, and Steve's breathing was deep and even, his face relaxed in a way she didn't remember._

 _Diana tore her gaze away from him and studied the Chief, his face streaked with shadows._

 _"So you're not afraid to die for this, then?" She asked, gesturing toward the tent behind her, curious._

 _He looked at her, his eyes glinting with amusement. "I will not die in this war."_

 _Diana's eyebrows arched. "How do you know that?"_

 _"I just do," he shook his head, chuckling under his breath._

 _"What about them?" She nodded toward the sleeping men, her eyes narrowed ever so slightly and her head tilted to her shoulder. People, she had learned quickly, were very easy to read. Even the notorious spy let his guard down when he didn't know anyone was looking. But this particular person sitting in front of her allowed nothing to betray his thoughts, which left her intrigued and more than a little wary. Not alarmed, though – Steve clearly trusted him, and she was learning to trust him. And yet..._

 _The Chief glanced at the swaddle of coats and blankets that moved slowly as his friends slept, his brows coming together as his eyes lingered on Steve for a brief moment longer. He looked Diana square in the face then, the gaze of his black eyes piercing her with its intensity._

 _"None of them will," he responded softly after a few moments, and she knew that he meant it. "I know who you are. What you are."_

 _"What I am…?" She echoed, not quite certain how to take it._

 _His chin jerked toward Steve. "He does, too. He's just doesn't know it yet."_

 _"How can he not know that he knows something?" Diana smiled, thinking that he was teasing her._

 _The Chief added another log to the fire. His face grew serious. "Sometimes, it takes a lot of bravery to believe something that you don't understand."_

xoox

The only time Steve had ever been to a hospital was after his first tour, back in the States still, when he stupidly dislocated his shoulder and was sent to the infirmary. The one thing he remembered from back then was a heavy smell of everything that was the damned hospital that seemed to haunt him for weeks on end after he was discharged. It was like it lodged itself into his throat and seeped into his skin, and no matter how many times he bathed and washed his clothes, he couldn't help but feel like he was carrying an entire ward on him.

And it was that again, but so much worse, too. It turned out that a person could only sleep for so long, and once the medication started to wear off and the fog had lifted, he found himself bored out of his mind. Reading was giving him a headache, and the crackling radio at the end of the hallway was hard to hear, and being bedridden for most of the day was driving him insane. And worst of all, he wasn't allowed to shave. Apparently, they were not trusted with any sharp objects – the logic he didn't quite understand, but even his barely edible lunch only included a fork and a spoon.

It was ridiculous, really.

"Get me out of here," he begged Diana two days later.

"I will, as soon as you can stand without swaying," she gave him a pointed look, remaining unmoved.

He flashed a grin at her. "I thought you liked swaying."

She adjusted his pillow. "Nice try."

He hated the time when she wasn't around, when the minutes stretched endlessly and the nights were unbearably long and his thoughts were so loud he could hardly stand it. There was only so far a man could run away from himself.

Etta came over, too, although she was worse than Diana in that she didn't want to tell him anything about the outside world. He'd heard the snippets of the conversations between the nurses about the Germans leaving France for good, about the overall panic among the troops, about the shift in power, the allies gaining some leverage at last. They promptly ignored his questions though when he asked them to elaborate.

"All I can do is stare at the ceiling," he told Etta when she managed to kick Diana out 'to get some fresh air', taking her turn in babysitting him.

"Beats being dead," she pointed out without much sympathy, making him smirk. "I can't believe you never told me," she said once more, and Steve flinched a little. "You could trust me."

"I know," he admitted. "It wasn't about that. I didn't want—" he cleared his throat. "It didn't seem fair to put something like this…"

"You really are a moron," she interjected, shaking her head. Then glanced toward the door to make sure that no one was there, and dropped her voice. "Just so you know, the British Intelligence appreciates your invaluable input."

Steve's eyes widened. "The letters… Did you…?" The ones that Diana must have salvaged, he figured.

"Delivered where they belong," she promised. "Just keep it between us. You're not supposed to be thinking about any of this."

His smile softened. "Thank you, Etta."

"You always _have_ to do it the hard way, don't you?" She muttered with a hint of exasperation.

Man, he missed her, Steve thought.

He got a ward-mate, too. A 60-something Irish colonel called Hector who spoke excessively in monosyllabic words or grunts and who slept most of the time – so much so that Steve didn't even know what was wrong with him that he needed to be here at all. He tried to entertain himself by playing the guessing game but it grew old pretty fast.

Suffice it to say, he hated this place.

"Stay," he asked Diana on a Friday night, feeling like a few more hours in this room, and he wold start climbing walls.

Leaning against a couple of lumpy pillows, he was half-sitting in bed, his fingers playing lazily with hers as he cradled his left arm to his chest in a sling.

"I think it's against the rules," she pointed out.

Steve caught her gaze and held it. "We can make our own rules," he suggested quietly, letting go of her hand and wrapping his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him until their noses were almost touching and her eyes were the only thing he could see. Her breath was falling on his cheek, and Steve grinned when she failed to bite back a smile.

"You have an awful lot of those, don't you?" Diana murmured, and his mouth went dry.

"You can't blame me."

Someone cleared their throat loudly behind them, and Diana pulled away just as Steve's roommate shuffled into the ward, walking toward his bed and deliberately not looking in their direction. He continued to ignore Diana entirely all through the past two days, much to her general confusion and Etta's outrage. Not that either of those things made much difference.

Diana bit her lip, and Steve tried to hide his chuckle behind a cough.

"And now Hector here is scandalized," he muttered, his hand finding hers again and his thumb running discreetly over the inside of her wrist where Diana's pulse stuttered a little under his touch.

Her brows pulled together. "Why? We're not doing anything."

 _And what a shame it is_ , Steve thought – couldn't help it, really.

"Because there's a beautiful woman visiting me and not him," he replied loud enough for Hector to hear, but the other man only snorted in response. "And maybe it's making him a little uncomfortable," Steve added softly, only for Diana.

"Am I making _you_ uncomfortable?" She inquired, clearly entertained.

"Well, um…" Steve shifted under the thin blanket and glanced away, the tips of his ears turning red. "I wouldn't call it _that_ ," he responded vaguely, finding it hard to keep a straight face.

She laced their fingers together. "I'll be back in the morning."

"And bring back my shaving cream," he grimaced, scratching his scruff.

Diana smiled, her voice dropping when she spoke like she was telling him a secret, "I like it."

"I wish you didn't have to leave. I already miss you," he rubbed her knuckles with his thumb and kissed them.

She ran her hand through his hair and leaned it to brush a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Tomorrow."

xoox

She did not come back in the morning.

Or in the afternoon.

And by the time Etta showed up in the evening – and after Steve had already learned just how dedicated the hospital was when it came to keeping the people from getting out – he started to feel like he was losing his mind, his stomach clenched into a tight knot and his heart about to shatter his ribcage. There was something disturbing about thinking that the worse case scenario was her leaving, but he couldn't shake that idea, his mind stuck, running through their conversation from the previous night, dissecting it piece by piece, turning the words inside out to see if he'd missed anything.

She wouldn't, he thought. She wouldn't just leave because—

Because what? Because he wanted to believe that she wouldn't?

The thought made him feel sick, made the walls spin around him for the reasons that had nothing to do with his damned concussion.

She promised, he thought desperately. She promised…

And so when Etta stepped into the room, he was on the verge of jumping out of his skin.

"Steve-"

"Where is she?" He demanded, all too aware of the edge in his voice and not giving a shit about it.

"Look, if you would just-" she started, "—calm down, first of all."

His shoulders slumped and he stopped his frantic pacing, freezing in the middle of the room as the world fell back somewhat, like someone pulled a bag over his head, making it hard to breathe and impossible to hear anything outside of his own mind.

"What happened?" He asked, so very close to actually screaming.

Etta's eyes flickered toward the other man in the room before she grabbed Steve by the elbow and dragged him unceremoniously into the hallway and toward the fire escape staircase that seemed to be the only relatively secluded place in the entire building.

She pushed him through the door and shut it behind them, cutting off the voices of the doctors and other patients, and thank god the god-awful medical smell that was the real nightmare of this place.

"It's the Germans," Etta hissed as if someone could still overhear them. "Something's—something's up, they're panicking." She swallowed uneasily. "They're burning down the camps."

"Oh god." His insides dropped, air wheezing out of him. "Did she go there?"

"Steve…"

"How did she even know-" he started but cut off abruptly when the realization dawn on him, nudged by Etta's suddenly evasive gaze.

"Well…" She drawled. "How was I supposed to know that she would—Okay, I probably should have." She admitted. "There was a letter… the British intercepted a letter, and I—I'm sorry."

"I've gotta get out of here," he muttered, and ruffled his hair, running his hand over the 3-day stubble on his chin. Then leaned closed to Etta and whispered urgently, "Please. I can't stay here. Not when Diana is—out there, somewhere. I can't."

Etta shook her head vigorously and even took a step away form him for good measure. "She will kill me. _Really_ kill me. With a sword."

"I can't stay here," he repeated, half frustrated, half pleading.

"You have a head trauma, Steve," she reminded him. "What are you planning to do, exactly? Swim across the Channel? Do something _smart_ that would get you killed?"

"I mean, I don't know-"

"Well, maybe you should start with that." Her voice wasn't harsh but it wasn't particularly kind either, and her gaze was daring him to protest.

She had a point, Steve had to admit that. He hated it when she had a point.

Etta's expression softened and she let out a slow, steadying breath when he wisely remained silent. "You trust her, right?"

xoox

He did. He trusted Diana more than he'd ever trusted anyone. It was himself that he didn't know what to do with.

For the sake of well-being of the patients, the hospital limited the war news for their charges to a minimum, and the old radio was often tuned to one of the music stations that were of no help to him. He could feel the shift in the air, something was stirring, but Steve couldn't put a finger on what it was, and the time stretched painfully, one agonizingly long minute after another.

Even Hector who had no idea what got Steve looking like a caged animal seemed to have tuned down his displeasure over the unwanted company – anyone's company, for that matter. Granted, it would feel like a victory only if he bloody cared.

As it was, however, he chose not to.

His broken bones ached dully, making him aware of every move he made, every breath he took, distracting in the way that he didn't find welcoming. Pacing the room left him dizzy, sitting on his bad was akin trying to rest on a bed of sharp nails. Nothing was right, nothing felt comfortable, and he regretted more than anything not convincing Etta to help him leave. Maybe he wouldn't be able to help – hell, he had no idea where she _was_ , but at least he wouldn't feel so helpless and useless, and everything about him itched to go back home where even the walls offered comfort.

He was stretched on top on his blankets sometime after midnight the following night, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, his mind on fire, while his neighbour snored peacefully ten feet away from him when the door opened, revealing a familiar silhouette that made Steve's heart trip over itself standing in a rectangle of light.

For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. It was late, the lights long out on the entire floor, and he had worn himself thin with worry.

But then Diana crossed the room in two swift strides, graceful and soundless as ever, and was lowering down next to him. Steve met her halfway, pushing up to sit and reaching for her, wrapping his arms around her, feeling so light with relief that he thought he would float away if he let go of her.

"Thank god," he breathed out.

She was shaking ever so slightly, small tremors that reverberated into him, and she smelled of smoke and blood and all the things Steve didn't want to think of. Yet, she was here, warm and real, and he couldn't catch his breath because until this very moment, he was thinking he would never see her again.

Steve kissed her temple and buried his face in her hair, breathing her in. The cold of the early winter was clinging to her skin, her armour, her lips, and he seemed to not be able to hold her close enough.

"Are you okay?" He asked softly once his heart was no longer lodged in his throat, nearly choking him.

She nodded and took in a shaky breath. "I'm sorry."

"Are you hurt?" Steve pulled back just enough to see her face, make sure she was real. He smoothed down her hair, ran his thumb over her cheekbone.

"No," Diana whispered, touching her fingertips to her cheek. "I shouldn't have left… like this."

"It's okay," he shook his head, smiling faintly before he pulled her to him again. "I thought you…" He swallowed, unable to utter the words that were coursing through his system like some vile disease. Now that she was back, the idea seemed ludicrous, impossible, and he was suddenly overcome with guilt over doubting her. Steve exhaled slowly. "I'm glad that you're back."

"They really wanted to do it, to burn everything to the ground," she muttered into his shoulder, her voice breaking.

"Shhh." He kissed her hair, his hand running soothing over her back.

"The way they were talking about those people… They called them 'meat', 'disposable'. They said-"

"Diana…"

"I don't understand how..." Her words were barely audible, soft in the night, and he could feel her heart bleed like it was his own. Steve's eyes dropped shut as he willed her pain away. "They were saying those awful things about real people, and they talked about them—How could they be so cruel? How could they… how could you be like this to one another?"

Steve let out a long breath and leaned back against the pillows, taking her with him, cradling her to him like a child who was lost and sacred, careful to be quiet, less concerned about the comfort of his neighbour and more about losing this moment if the other man woke up.

He wanted to ask her questions about where she went and what happened and whether she really wasn't hurt because it scared him to see her life this. It scared him to know that he couldn't make it go away for her, make it better somehow. But there were answers that no one wanted to hear, and moments no one wanted to relive, and maybe in another lifetime they would be luckier not to have to go through either.

"Because it's not Ares. It's not gods that make us this way. Sometimes, it's what we are." Steve said softly, not sure if she was listening or not, the words finding it hard to claw their way out of his throat. "But there are good people, too. So many more of them, and they're worth fighting for, you know?" She was crying now, soundlessly, his shirt damp with her tears, and all he wanted to do was keep apologizing over and over again, _I'm sorry you only get to see us at our worst. I'm sorry we're not as good as you thought we were. I'm sorry the world can be ugly sometimes, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry_ … "It's over now. I promise you it's over." His bad shoulder screamed in protest, but he couldn't bear the idea of letting go. "I can't fix it all. I don't think anyone can. But we're doing what we can, and… you saved them all, you saved so many people."

"I don't understand… I don't understand why there must be so much pain, why you would choose to cause it to one another," her voice was soft, and muffled by her uneven breathing.

In the darkness of the room dispersed only by the strip of light under the closed door, everything looked smudged somehow, the sounds swallowed by the shadows, and yet at the same time, everything about his moment felt impossibly clear. He could smell his soap and the sun of Themyscira on her skin, his thumbs running over her back, their faces almost touching. Steve swallowed hard when she took in a shuddered breath, acutely aware of every point where her body was pressed to his.

"We're not perfect, but we're not that bad," he continued, more out of need to fill the silence than anything else. It was hard to think when she was this close, so close he could no longer feel the numbing bone-chill settled deep inside him. "So long as we don't give up on each other."

For all he knew, they were not talking about the war anymore.

Her breathing evened out eventually, falling in sync with his.

"Don't go," he muttered when she stirred.

"I should let you rest," Diana responded softly.

He chuckled under his breath. "I've been stuck here for five days. I think I'm done with resting."

She stayed quiet for a while, her fingers closed in a fist around his bunched shirt, flexing with every inhale and exhale.

"I was thinking… Will you come with me?"

He pecked the top of her head. "Anywhere."

"To Themyscira."

He went still when her response landed on him like a punch, knocking him off-balance, the unexpectedness of her words leaving his mind reeling momentarily.

"Are you going back?" He asked in a strained voice, wondering what the right answer was. Was she planning on leaving regardless of his decision?

She lifted her head to look at him and then shook her head after a short pause, her words nothing like what he thought they might be, "I don't have the answers you're looking for. But they might."

 **To be continued...**

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 **A/N:** You guys are so amazing! Thank you for all the love :) I do hope you're enjoying the ride so far; I have some insane stuff planned for this story, so... I'm doing my best to keep the updates frequent!


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note:** This is my favourite chapter so far, it was so much fun to work on, and I hope you'll enjoy it as much :) You'll finally have some answers, and this part basically sets the rest of the plot in motion.

Also it's safe to say that short chapters are not my thing...

There's some explicit stuff here so if it's not your thing - feel free to skip it. And, that's about it. Dig in!

* * *

 _Themyscira, 1945_

There were two drastically different Themysciras that lived in Steve's mind, the images of them often clashing with one another.

One was of his lungs full of water, burning as he struggled to get free from the death grip of the metal carcass of the plane, his mind on fire with panic and fear; of the hands pulling him out to the surface and the face seared into his memory for a hundred lifetimes; of the sand and blood and trying to hold the rifle in the hands that were slippery with salt and sweat, his heart beating so hard and fast that the sound of it was swallowing the gunshots; of the burning lasso that stripped him of his will and pulled the words he swore to never say aloud out of his mouth; of thinking he was never going to leave the caves with glowing water alive.

This Themyscira left him filled with trepidation and jittery nervousness, the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach making Steve's pulse stutter.

But the other one… The other one was bright and colourful and filled with Diana's stories of happiness and sadness and small mischiefs, often whispered in the dark, under the cover of the night, in response to his, "Tell me…" The place made of dreams that went beyond his imagination. The place of her aspirations and small secrets, and he could almost smell the ocean and feel the breeze on his face when she spoke of it, mesmerized and transfixed by unmasked affection in Diana's voice, by the mental images of her as a little girl, a stubborn teenager, a young woman, always on the verge of breaking a rule, bending the world to her will.

"I was a handful," she admitted once with a small laugh.

"Really?" Steve raised a skeptical eyebrow at her, earning a playful bump of her shoulder against his. "I would've never guessed."

And now he was about to see the third version of the island – the combination of the two, he supposed. A whole new experience of his own.

"Your Majesty," Steve cleared his throat when Diana stepped out of her mother's embrace and Hippolyta's gaze moved past her daughter and fixed on him, still lingering on the dock, not quite certain about the protocol.

He was suddenly overcome with the urge to bow, or at the very least curtsy, very aware by the moment of being surrounded by half a dozen Amazon warriors, undoubtedly the best ones here, considering that they were selected to escort the Queen herself. If anything, it was quite a surprise he hadn't been tired up the second he'd stepped off the boat. A good kind of surprise.

They didn't look threatening, though. Curious, he figured, but Steve had to admit that he wouldn't be half as okay with their scrutiny without Diana's reassuring presence. There was something about knowing that any of these women could behead him without batting an eye that made him more self-conscious than he'd ever been, perhaps. It was one thing, after all, to end up here by accident, and something else entirely to come back by choice.

And then there was the Queen herself whose expression remained unreadable, but there was a twinkle of something in her eyes, something akin recognition, if not appreciation that he couldn't quite place, and maybe it was just the light, or a great deal of wishful thinking on Steve's part, but he could have sworn that her lips twitched ever so slightly, forming into a small smile that she didn't quite manage to hold back.

She glanced at Diana then, for just a flicker of a moment, and nodded with an impassive, "Very well," which made him realize that he was barely breathing all this time

Diana smiled at him, her hand brushed against Steve's for a moment as the two of them followed Hippolyta and her guards back to the city.

xoox

It was bigger than Steve remembered, more populated than the first time he'd traveled the streets toward the castle and the throne room, and more elaborately built than he could recall, and he wondered if it had something to do with the fact that he was slightly less worried about his well-being this time around, his concern lying with something far more terrifying than death.

"You look… rather stunned," Diana steered her horse closer to his and leaned over to Steve, entertained by his blunt gawking.

He tore his gaze away from a row of houses to the left from him. "I'm starting to understand how you must have felt when you first came to England," he confessed, feeling the almost palpable curiosity of the women on the streets around them, each and every gaze seemingly glued to him. The attention was making him feel exposed, bare even when he was fully clothed.

"You've been here before," she reminded him, trying and failing to swallow her laughter, clearly pleased with herself.

Steve smirked. He loved the way she looked here – less guarded, more relaxed, and it made him wonder if Diana was even aware of this transformation, which was not surprising, but no less notable nonetheless. In his world, even though she had infinite advantage over anything and everything, she was on alert more often than not. Here, there was no need for that.

The list of the things he couldn't give her was growing exponentially, but he pushed the thought away.

"As a prisoner, not a—a _trophy_ ," he pointed out.

"Is what you think you are?" She inquired, an eyebrow arched.

Steve flashed a cheeky smile at her. "Am I not?"

The war had ended a few months ago, and even though Steve thought she would insist on coming over straight away, Diana wanted to stay back to see the resolution of it all, help however she could, and to a certain degree, he was relieved by that. The truth was, even though he knew that he'd gladly follow her to the gates of hell and beyond, the idea of getting closer to the answers that he knew would change everything one way or another was equally thrilling and terrifying.

There were times when he wanted to tell her that it didn't matter, that he didn't want to know, and part of him didn't. The part that wanted to keep holding on to what passed for normalcy these days. However, it didn't seem fair to them both, and whatever it was, whatever they could possibly learn here, he knew that Diana had the right to know it too, if only because it she needed to be aware of what exactly she was signing up for with him.

They were waiting for them on the beach, the Queen and her warriors, when their boat broke through the barrier that surrounded the island, leaving the grey sky of the stormy Atlantic behind, greeted by the bright sun and turquoise waters and the air that smelled of jasmine on the other side of it. Like they knew that he and Diana would come. Like it went beyond any doubt.

Standing on the deck of the boat next to Diana whose gaze was glued to the approaching shore, Steve reached for her hand and weaved his fingers through hers. "You're nervous," he said – a statement, not a question.

She shook her head and squeezed his hand. "No, I'm not. Are you?"

"Should I be? Are they going to go for my throat?"

Diana glanced at him, "Not straight away."

"That's reassuring," he snorted. And whispered, "It's gonna be okay," into her hair, uncertain if he was saying it for her sake or his own.

And now he was being paraded – there was no word for it – through the city, and he could feel the gazes of everyone on the island on him, a little thrilling, a little unnerving, if Steve was honest with himself. It was still beyond him how they remained hidden for the entirety of their existence, safe and sheltered, and he wondered if maybe the Mayans – and a dozen other civilizations - were also tucked away somewhere, far from the reach of the world that could destroy them in a heartbeat because it seemed to be the one thing that the people knew how to do best.

Diana caught him watching her. "There's nothing I can promise," she said once more – an echo of their conversation from a few weeks back, when his broken bones stopped bothering him as much, when the reality clicked back into place, somewhat, and she explained to him that if there was a chance that Ares had anything to do with what had happened to Steve, even though she wasn't quite sure how, the Amazons would know more about it than anyone else. However, it wasn't something that she could guarantee.

"I know. You mentioned that," he nodded, pulling a little on the reins to stay with her. His smile softened. "I never asked you to."

"It's just… I wouldn't want to have dragged you all the way here for nothing." She shook her head.

Steve scoffed. "I wouldn't call that _dragging_. I was the first one to hop on that boat, no? Besides, the weather in London was starting to get dreary."

She smirked. "Well, it's good to know that you can be so easily pleased."

He chose not to respond to _that_ in public.

xoox

Steve wasn't quite certain where the rest of the day went, but one moment he was being shown around and introduced to an infinite number of women whose names and faces started to blur before his eyes no matter how hard he tried to keep track of them while also attempting to read their body language and take notice of social clues, endless corridors of the palace that he'd only seen from below before snaking before him like a maze, and then suddenly it was night, and he was alone in 'his quarters', as Queen Hippolyta put it when she asked one of her guard ladies to escort him here, and once the door closed behind him – not locked, he made sure - it was suddenly so quiet that it almost hurt.

The room was spacious and if a little impersonal, luxurious in every sense of the word and not a step but a whole staircase above the last lodging he'd had here. A tall window was overlooking the town below that gleamed with thousands of lights, and above it, the sky was jet-black and splattered with myriads of stars, and together, they made him feel like he was floating in space, suspended between constellations.

All those years ago, it was only jokingly that he referred to Themyscira as 'Paradise Island', and mostly because his own experience here was far from heavenly, but he could see it now, see how it could suck you right in, the serenity of the place transfixing, addictive in the way that he couldn't quite put his finger on just yet. It was everything that his world wasn't. The gentle lapping of the waves against the shore a mile away from the castle and the cries of seagulls somewhat softened by the wind were the only sounds in the stillness of the night. The breeze felt warm and fresh on his face, carrying the smell of the ocean mixed with floral notes and the scent of lamp oils, and for the first time in a very long time, Steve Trevor felt at peace with himself.

Whatever Diana thought they could find here, it was worth the trip; it was worth not feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders for however long it lasted.

She was fading in and out of his line of sight all day before disappearing altogether, and he had no way of finding her now short of asking someone for help. The idea left Steve a little more unsettled than he liked, and in the end, he decided to wait till the morning, not wanting to wander the labyrinth that this place was on his own, and even less thrilled by the thought of running into someone.

However different Diana felt in _his_ version of reality, at least she wasn't an entirely different species that stood out like a sore thumb.

They'd fed him, too, Steve had to give them that. Not long ago. He distinctly remembered being offered a plate of something that didn't look familiar in any way; remembered eating without really registering the taste, but the time seemed warped here somehow, which he wrote off to the excitement of the new place. He pulled his watch out of the pocket of his pants. It was a little past midnight now, they'd arrived less than 12 hours ago. And yet, it felt like he managed to live a few months' worth of life in that time, his mind reeling.

He thought he wouldn't be able to sleep, too wired for that, but the moment his head touched the pillow that smelled faintly of fresh linen and the sun, his eyes started to droop, his head fuzzy in the comfortable, over-exhausted way that was like a blanket wrapped around his brain.

But it was when Steve started to drift off that the door to the room opened soundlessly, and he'd miss it completely had it not been for a flicker of light from the hallway breaking through the fog in his head, pulling him back to the surface again. For a second, he thought that he'd imagined the dark figure that slipped inside, but then the sheets covering him shifted as someone moved across the bed.

She smelled of the sea and something that lingered in the periphery of his attention during their time on the boat, like flowers and scented oil, and his heartbeat escalated by the moment.

Diana threw her leg over his hip, her hands pressed into the pillow on either side of his head, and he reached for her, his hands siding up her back, along the leather of her armour and toward her shoulders, pulling her closer to him.

"Hey," he breathed out.

"Hi," she whispered back, and bumped her nose playfully against his before kissing him properly, her lips soft and warm, and it took Steve a moment to realize that the low groan of appreciation was actually coming from him.

"What are you - Should you be here?" He breathed out. She was making it very hard for him to think.

"Would you like me to leave?" She asked, her voice barely a whisper against his skin.

Steve swallowed, her fingers flexing on her skin, skimming over her shoulder-blades. "God, don't even joke about it."

"It is customary for the guests to have their own chambers," Diana murmured with a smile, kissing her way along his jaw, "but no one is under the illusion that we're not together, in _that_ way."

Steve framed her face with her hands, his eyes fastened on hers and his sleepiness nowhere to be found anymore. "Okay, here's an idea - we don't talk about your family for a while, and then you can tell me _all_ about them. How 'bout that?"

She grinned at him, "Deal."

And then she kissed him again, slowly and deeply, lips parting against his and luring him into the dark depths of consuming pleasure. Steve pushed his hands into her hair, tugging her closer, allowing her to coax a growl of need out of him, her mouth curved into a victorious smile against his.

He missed her, missed being with her like that, the closeness not obstructed by anything but the need to savour every moment, every electric touch of their hands moving over one another's bodies. Between his recovery and the war that wore them out and several days on the boat in the middle of the stormy sea, it was starting to feel like he hadn't touched her in years. The wanting ricocheted through him, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, settling in his lower belly and making his body hum with pure, unrestrained desire.

"I missed you," Diana whispered as if reading his mind, her mouth hot on his skin, and he thought he might evaporate in her arms.

Steve's fingers strummed along her back, skimming over her armour. "This needs to go," he murmured.

She smiled and pulled away, straddling his thighs as her hand reached for the clasps keeping the snug leather in place. He sat up too, his palm cupped over her face, his mouth fitted to hers, drinking her, his heartbeat a rapid staccato and his desire fully known. Diana's breath hitched – an intoxicating sound -when his hand slid up her thigh and toward the skirt of her garment, and she caught his wrist, guiding him to the familiar straps, allowing him to peel her armour off, unwrapping her one layer after another.

Hungry as he was, he took his time, kissing every inch of the exposed skin with deliberate precision until there was nothing else untended and Diana's eyes were black and wild. Her armour fell to the floor without a sound and he lifted his arms to let her pull his undershirt over his head, her fingers smoothing down his rumpled hair.

"Don't laugh at my bedhead," Steve muttered hoarsely, his lips latching on her collarbone and moving down toward her breast, palms splayed over her back.

"I love your bedhead," she promised.

She pulled away, earning a low noise of protest, and then, a hand pressed into his chest, she pushed him back, and Steve complied if a little hesitantly, lying down and looking up at her quizzically, his chest heaving under her palm, under her control and blinded by the exhilaration of that feeling. Diana leaned in, capturing his mouth with hers, her hair a veil of black, tickling his chest.

"Let me…" she whispered so softly he almost missed it, her lips moving down his throat, peppering a path down his chest with small, purposeful kisses.

"Diana," he started, a plea and a warning.

"I love you," she murmured, kissing his sternum, her fingers tugging at the belt of his pants – did he not take them off? He couldn't remember.

His eyes dropped shut and he sucked in a shaky breath, allowing her to do anything, _everything_ , the fire shooting from his core to the tips of his fingers, making his blood feel like molten gold, his mind spiraling into nothingness where there was nothing but him and her, and the bliss the likes of which Steve didn't know existed.

His awareness tunneled, the desire achingly sweet, the need for more growing exponentially with every moment, each touch of her hands electrifying, and he was uncertain if it'd be worse if she stopped or kept going.

"Stay with me," Diana whispered, shifting to hover over him, and he looked up slowly to find her watching him, her lips curled into a wicked smile.

Steve's hands flexed on her hips, desperate and needy, and she leaned in, kissing him again, swallowing a guttural moan that ripped from deep inside him when she took him in on a single slide, his hips snapping up to fill her to the brim, her gasp resonating through him.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, savouring the warm, languid sensation, their breaths ragged and short, and _Jesus Chris, he loved her so much_.

"You will be the death of me," Steve muttered, his hand tangled in her hair and his heart fluttering so fast he could barely breathe.

He tried to see her eyes, but it was too dark, and he was too distracted by her body, the feeling of her everywhere around him, and he wanted…

She pulled away, hands flat on his chest, moving slowly above him, half-teasing him, half-adamant to make it last, bringing him close with every rock and then going back to a more measured tempo, her gaze locked on his, and in the silver moonlight she look ethereal, entirely unearthly. Steve's fingers dug into the flesh of her thighs, holding on to whatever he could reach, following her lead, the familiar dance of their bodies as easy as breathing.

Over the course of his life, Steve wondered more than once what it was that pushed people to fight for peace, for their lives; what was the essence of self-preservation when giving up was so much easier, so much simpler in many ways. He knew it now, saw it in Diana's face. Belonging. Solace in the arms of the loved one. It was worth everything. Her face streaked with silver light and shadows was blissful, happy, holding all the promises that transcended words.

Close now, so close…

Her breathing grew short, her movements more erratic, and Steve's grip on her tightened as he sat them up, Diana in his lap, a new angle leaving them both beathless. One hand on the small of her back, he buried his face into her neck as she wound her arms around him, his mouth finding that spot behind her ear that worked like magic. Diana's hands dug into his shoulders, sliding over his back and gripping the hair at the nape of his neck, the soft whispers peppered with his name and the words in languages he couldn't understand making him shiver with every inhale.

"It's okay," she murmured into his ear, and the sound of her voice pushed Steve over the edge.

His release seared through him and into her, muttered words morphing into a groan when she went limp in his arms, her lips dancing over his skin, a shower of affection.

Arms wrapped tightly around Diana, Steve fell back on the sheets, taking her with him, her hands stroking his face as she was murmuring something that drowned in the deafening blood rush in his ears, his bones liquefied in the best way imaginable, and his mind spiralling into nothingness and bliss.

"I love you," her voice registered with him, faint but there, her fingers framing his face, her forehead pressed to his.

And he wondered once again if this kind of longing could ever fade, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind with certainty that the answered was no.

xoox

This would not be the worst way to go, Steve thought, stretched out on his back, the world nothing but a kaleidoscope of light around him. His breath was nowhere to be found still, and he was quite certain that his heartbeat was loud enough to be heard by everyone for miles around them (and he refused to think of any other sounds that might or might not have been audible because at some point he simply stopped caring). Although the fact that no one broke down the damned door and barged in was rather promising.

His eyes drifted shut and he swallowed, trying to find his thoughts, anything that would prove he was still corporeal and not an abstract concept floating through time and space.

From the get go, Steve was hesitant to surrender to Diana's ministration, his own pleasure in pleasing her, in knowing that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, adamant to prove that he wasn't 'unnecessary', the fear still lingering in the back of his mind no matter how many times she promised him that there was no need for it, not since their first night together.

However, his reservations aside, it was out-of-this-world incredible to give in to her, no price too dear.

"Am I dead?" Steve rasped when his ability to form coherent sentences returned, somewhat surprised to feel the breeze spilling in through the open window cool against his heated skin.

Stretched alongside him, a lazy smile on her face, Diana giggled. She pulled a thin sheet over them and shifted to press closer to him. "Far from it," she ducked her head to brush a kiss to his shoulder, his collarbone, earning a quiet curse in response. His whole body felt like an exposed nerve, like any touch could cause him to spontaneously combust. Again – not the worst way to go.

"Where on earth did you learn that… that thing that you did?" Steve asked, his lips twitching, finally founding it in him to crank one eye open, and then another.

She propped up on her elbow, her head resting on the heel of her hand, eyeing him with amusement and smug satisfaction. "That would be volume 11," she informed him nonchalantly.

Steve chocked on his breath and let out a strangled groan that made her laugh.

Right. The treatises on bodily pleasure.

"Jesus…" His arm curled around her waist. "Can I flip through them? At least some of them? Strictly for educational purposes."

"Educational, huh?" She echoed, grinning. "How about I… ah, provide a demonstration?"

His cheeks grew hot, and even in the dark, Steve knew that it couldn't have possibly escaped her attention. She was unapologetic about her wants and needs, never hesitating to follow her desires, and he loved her even more for that, even though her ability to make him turn red to the tip of his ears made Steve feel like he was walking on thin ice more often than not, never knowing when he might drown.

"Pease tell me I'm not going to get killed for doing what we just did with the daughter of the Queen." His voice was small and rather miserable even to his own ears.

"I'm not sure it's an offence, but let me go find out," Diana responded with a feigned frown and even started to pull away from him with enough determination to make his heart skip a beat.

Steve caught her by the wrist and tugged her back to him, a flicker of panic flashing across his face. "Don't…. it's not funny."

"Don't you trust me to keep you safe?" She asked, one eyebrow arched.

"How can I trust someone whom I've been begging for mercy not half an hour ago?" Steve countered.

Her smile widened. "Fair point."

"I don't… I don't want you to think that you have to keep me safe," he added softly, seriously.

"I know." She kissed him on the chest.

Steve felt the curve of her smile against his skin. "What?" He asked.

Diana looked up, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Someone told me today that you look at me like I'm your sun and stars when I'm not looking," she responded, struggling to keep her grin at bay, her voice low like she was sharing a secret.

"That is not true," Steve shook his head, his face solemn.

She tilted her head to her shoulder, "Is it not?"

"No." He finger slid under her chin, his gaze holding hers. "That's how I _always_ look at you, whether or not you see it." He drew her to him, brushing a feather light kiss to her brow.

"Mm-hm," she hummed.

Steve traced his thumb along her chin. "I love you, princess."

The corners of her mouth tugged up. "No one here calls me that," she informed him.

"Huh? What do they call you?"

"Diana. My mother… she made sure that I always understood that being her daughter was a responsibility, not a privilege. That I was not above everyone else simply because of who I was. I've always been more on display, my victories as well as my mistakes never going unnoticed." Her fingers were tracing the line of an old scar on his shoulder as she spoke, her tone a mixture of wistfulness and contemplation. "It was an honour to be brought up the way I was, though."

Steve ran his hand absently up and down her spine. "So, no special treatment then? There goes my dream of being a royalty."

Diana draped her arm over his chest and rested her chin on the back of her hand, watching him in the moonlight. "Maybe a little," she admitted. "But I was raised to be a warrior first and everything else second."

He studied her for a long moment, his hand playing with a strand of her hair. "You're staying, right? Here, with me?"

"Mm, would you want me to?" She pulled away from him just far enough to trail her hand along his chest and down his stomach, a feather-light touch that earned her a muttered curse and a sharp inhale.

"Oh god," Steve breathed out. "I don't think I can..."

She laughed softly and traced her finger over his cheek. "You're tired. Sleep."

He swallowed. "Not exactly what I meant."

"I know." She leaned in to kiss him. "We can get back to that later."

"Stay," he repeated, just in case, the idea of waking up alone unsettling at best. To this point, all of this felt more like a dream in and of itself. She was his anchor, and Steve liked it that way.

"I will," she scooted closer to him, resting her head on his chest, one leg draped over one of his - a possessive gesture that he loved to no end – and let out a long breath, melting into the warmth of his body.

"Diana?" He asked quietly, clinging to the thin film of consciousness, already teetering on the brink of wakefulness.

"Mm?"

"Does it bother them that I'm here?"

She stayed quiet for a while, her finger drawing slow patterns on his skin. "Not that you're here, but your being here is the change that is… strange. Unheard of." He could hear a small smile in her voice. "They are curious, some of them never saw a person from your world before, especially a man." A pause. "You have nothing to worry about."

"Because I'm with you?" He stroked her hair absently.

"Because we're not the enemy."

xoox

It was odd – familiar and new at the same time.

To Diana, Themyscira always was a solid constant, stillness in the ever-changing chaos, and there was comfort in that. The kind of comfort that she couldn't find anywhere else. This was a place where she could catch her breath if needed be, where she could find herself again.

But with Steve there, she couldn't help but feel the two of her worlds colliding, much like the way the stars were born when the galaxies rammed into one another, all explosions and light and something new and beautiful at the end of it. Nothing had changed and yet everything was different, and she could feel her universe tilt and shift and spin in the opposite direction, the suddenness of it leaving her with a sense of vertigo.

In her mind, Themyscira belonged only to her, the way the memories of his past were only Steve's, and then seemingly out of nowhere he was poking his nose into every room of the palace, and having an affinity for her horse because _he was the fastest_ apparently, and getting beetroot red at the attention from her mother's guards and the villagers that he was not accustomed to, somewhat unsure whether he should be flattered or terrified. The kitchen ladies were in love with him, Diana could see that much, and seemingly on a mission to fatten him up, she suspected. She even caught him more once trying to show them how an omelette was supposed to be made or something of that kind.

Standing in the kitchen door with her arms crossed over her chest and her shoulder propped against the stone wall, Diana watched him explain something to the same women that allowed her as a little girl to have dessert before dinner when her mother wasn't looking, his voice too soft for her to hear what he was saying. And they were listening with intense curiosity, hanging on to his every word and eyeing him like he was a museum rarity. And already, she could hardly remember this place without him. It made no sense, and she wasn't sure how she felt about it, but watching him now, engaged in stirring something in a huge pot while making the cooks laugh at his jokes, made her chest tighten with warmth and affection she never knew she was capable of feeling. Never knew they even existed inside her.

Steve looked up then and spotted her, comically puzzled, a spoon in his mouth and a wordless _What?_ spoken only with his raised eyebrows.

Diana laughed, unable to hold it back. It was kind of incredible how only a few moments ago she thought she couldn't love him more, and yet…

"I'm taking it this is not a social visit," Hippolyta noted a few days later when they were standing above the training field, Diana's gaze darting between the vast expanse of the ocean beyond it and a small figure that was trying and epically failing to keep up with the warriors who had thousands of years of training on him.

Steve had asked her earlier if he could have a taste of what the majority of Diana's life was like before he'd literally fallen from the sky. If nothing else, Diana thought it was highly entertaining to watch him try with enviable determination to do what everyone else was doing.

"I wanted to…" she started, wincing a little when Artemis easily knocked him off the wooden platform like it was nothing, and he landed on the soft grass with a groan and a wince. "That must hurt," Diana noted, struggling not to smile. She glanced at her mother. "I wanted you to meet. Without the soldiers. Without death. I wanted you to see him for what he really is."

Hippolyta's eyes swept over the warriors, still unaccustomed to not seeing her sister among them.

"You don't need my approval," she said.

Not an accusation or a reproach. A simple fact.

"He wouldn't be here if you disapproved," Diana noted. She was certain that Hippolyta wouldn't let Steve set his foot on the island if she was against his presence here, not for her daughter, not for anyone else. Her eyes shifted toward Menalippe who was holding to the side of the field, guarded and openly displeased over the man's presence. Hippolyta's gaze followed Diana's. "She will never forgive him. For what happened on the beach, for Antiope."

"She can forgive anything to anyone for you," Hippolyta replied without a trace of doubt in her voice. "Give her time. It wasn't easy on anyone."

It wasn't, Diana thought. On her mother more than anyone. To lose a sister and a child in a span of a few days must have taken its toll on her even though there was nothing about her now that betrayed it. Still, Diana had felt a pang of guilt before, when she was leaving that first time, and she was still feeling it now.

"I know." For a long moment, the silence between them was only interrupted by the clanking of swords and hollers of excitement and protest, softened by the wind. "Something happened to him," Diana added quietly after a while. "On the night when Ares died. Something that his people don't have an explanation for. Steve was meant to die then, and once again, not long ago." She turned to Hippolyta. "When I came back here, after the war, you told me something about him coming back for a reason… I thought you might be able to tell me more."

Hippolyta flinched a little when Steve failed to deflect another blow, choosing to roll away from an attack, her features softening momentarily.

"You look happy," she noted without turning to her daughter.

"I am," Diana admitted.

"I don't want to take that away from you." Hippolyta's voice grew rueful. "That's the thing about the truth, Diana… once it's out, you can never take it back."

"It's not my life and not my decision to make," Diana murmured. "And it can't be worse than not knowing."

Below them, Steve looked up and saw her, his hand rising to wave at her. She could see his smile even from over a hundred feet away, his eyes squinted against the glare of the sun – a moment before he landed face-first on the ground, that is. He was going to regret this later, she mused, but there was something in seeing him try that was beyond endearing. It occurred to her then that to Steve, this also must have felt like a clash of two realities that were meant to run parallel to one another but never cross paths.

They were together in this.

"He seems like a good man."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Diana's mouth. "Might be the best of them all."

After a few long moments, Hippolyta nodded, and the decision was made.

xoox

"No, really, what is it?" Steve asked a few hours later when they found their way to the underground pools that gleamed faintly in the dark.

Diana insisted they come here, saying that his bruised and battered body would thank him later, and Steve knew better than to object, finding the idea of healing after being tossed around like a rag doll undeniably appealing. That, and maybe the whole joined bathing thing, but that wasn't exactly the _point_ , or so he tried to pretend as he followed Diana down the already familiar steps to the caverns underneath the castle, their footsteps echoing under the domed ceiling.

Sitting neck-deep in the water now, his back resting against the rough stone wall of the pool and Diana's – against his chest as he cradled her close to him, he ran his hand along the surface, his fingers leaving a trail of blue light behind.

She laughed her throaty laugh that made goosebumps rise on Steve's skin.

"It's magic," she responded, and he couldn't tell if she was being serious or merely teasing him. God knew, both were equally possible.

"No, I mean, there's got to be—are those some microorganisms that do that?" He pressed, wrapping his arms loosely around her, seeping in her warmth, all velvet and silk against his skin.

Diana turned her head and kissed his bicep. "Does it matter?"

"My inquisitive mind can't deal with not knowing," he deadpanned, and she burst out laughing. "What?" Steve demanded, mock-offended.

"You come here and you still don't believe in magic?" She shook her head, her hair gathered in a messy twist on the top of her head brushing against his cheek.

"I believe in you," he chuckled. "Close enough."

She looked up and locked her gaze with his, her lips curved into a small smile. "That's very generous of you."

"Isn't that what you said when…" he trailed off, feeling his face grow hot, and cleared his throat, struggling to keep the self-indulging grin at bay. She shouldn't have looked as triumphant as she did, but, Jesus, the woman sure knew how to keep him on his toes without even trying, and how eagerly he was swallowing every bait and stepping into every trap. Steve let out a long breath and brushed a kiss to her hair. "You think you want to stay here?"

"In the water? Sure, why not."

"Not _here_ here."

"On Themyscira?" Diana asked, running her fingertips along his forearm. She closed her hand over his and laced their fingers together. "No, we can't. You can't."

"I can't?" Steve frowned, trying to remember if it was mentioned that his visit had an expiration date. Were they going to haul him off and toss him into the ocean?

"Wouldn't you miss your world?" She leaned back against him.

The tightness in his chest eased instantly. His lips curved humourlessly, and for once, he was glad that Diana couldn't see it. What was there to miss? Death and destruction and uncertainty, her presence the only light in his life that mattered. He couldn't lose her, not again.

"You're my world," he whispered into her ear, his grip on her tightening like she could slip out of his grasp if he didn't hold fast.

"I'm serious," Diana pressed.

"Me, too." He wasn't sure that he was until the words came out of his mouth, and then suddenly, it seemed like the most logical, the most natural decision. So long as she wanted him, he didn't care about the technicalities. If she asked him to move to the moon, he'd simply start packing, no questions asked. "If you want to stay, we'll stay. It'll probably be a while before using me as a punching bag will stop being fun for your… are you all related somehow?"

Her thumb was running over his knuckles. Steve felt her amusement. "No."

"Oh, well, for your _friends and family_ , then."

"How bad is it?" Diana asked, tilting her head to nuzzle into his jaw.

He grimaced a little. "I might have to skip walking for a while. Or moving in general. And a person doesn't need both of their kidneys anyway, right?"

"I'll ask them to go easy on you," she promised sympathetically.

"Don't," he blurted out, horrified. "I'd rather have bruised ribs than a bruised ego. Besides—"

"Diana."

A woman – Aella, Steve thought, what with the names still blurring a bit in his mind – was standing at the mouth of the cave, and he nearly went underwater in surprise, more self-aware and flustered than he was comfortable with and unable to help it.

Diana straightened up and turned around, not particularly concerned, judging by her body language. If the other woman cared about the intimacy of the situation she'd walked in on, she didn't show it, either. Unlike the notorious spy who should probably have a better poker face, naked or not, and Steve hated himself for it.

"The Queen wants to see you. Now."

"What about?" Diana asked.

But to that, Aella only shook her head – either unaware, or choosing to let the Queen deal with it herself.

Nevertheless, Diana nodded and pulled herself up from the water. "I'll be right over."

She stepped out of the pool and reached for the sheet that was meant to serve as a towel lying folded near where she'd left her armour earlier to dry herself off. Steve tried not to stare. Their lack of any kind of self-consciousness was still catching him off guard even now, after all these years. Even after being around Diana long enough to stop being surprised by anything, least of all nudity and her ease about it. It still felt uncomfortable somehow to look at her lithe form in the presence of another person despite knowing her body better than her knew his own.

Yeah, okay, maybe that was the problem, he thought.

Aella's eyes flickered toward him.

"And your… guest," she added, making Steve wish he'd gone through with the 'waiting at the bottom of the pool' plan as he wanted from the start, concerned not so much about his nakedness, per se, as about a rather prominent bite mark on his shoulder, courtesy of Diana after they'd gotten a little carried away the previous night, and this was exactly the kind of information that he didn't want to share with anyone. Let alone with the people who might or might not be having some sort of family connection to the woman he was sleeping with. It was like walking blindfolded on a minefield, never knowing which step could be his last one. Here – literally so.

"We'll be there in a minute," Diana promised nonchalantly, and after that, Aella finally left and Steve exhaled at last. There was simply no way he would have gotten out of the pool otherwise. Still, his eyes remained on the entrance to the cave for another moment. "You need help standing up?" Diana smirked. "Steve?"

He snapped his head around, biting back a question about maybe having some doors installed here and there. "Hm? What? No."

He scrambled up to his feet with much less grace than Diana a minute ago, and she handed him a spare sheet, already busy putting on her armour. For a long moment, he allowed his gaze to linger on her body, sliding slowly up her calves and along her infinitely long legs, following the movements of her hands, every motion graceful and deliberate, like a well-choreographed dance as she affixed the bodice and the skirt in place, the wisps of hair that escaped her twist coiling at the nape of her neck.

God only knew how he resisted the urge to touch them, trace his fingertips along her skin.

Diana looked up, a silent question in her eyes pulling him out of his thoughts.

"Is everything okay?" Steve asked, gaze darting toward the entrance to the cave.

"Yes." Her features softened, and she stepped toward him when he still didn't move. Her palm curled over his jaw as she kissed him, chasing his concerns away. "Yes," she repeated, stroking his cheek with her thumb. "I would suggest you put something on now," she added, smiling. "I don't think my mother wold appreciate this," her finger trailed down his chest, making Steve suck in his breath and wish that the audience with the Queen wasn't on the agenda, "as much as I do."

xoox

Queen Hippolyta was standing by the fire place when Steve followed Diana into her chambers, looking at the flames, her face a mask of dancing shadows.

"Long ago—long before your time," she started without turning to Diana who paused behind her mother, "Zeus left us a prophecy about a daughter of god who was destined to change the man's world. She was meant to be taken away by the sky vessel to save mankind. At the time, it meant nothing to any of us. And then you were born, Diana."

Steve grew still.

He had never been here before, his eyes darting from Diana to her mother to the lavish furnishings of what looked like a study leading to the bedroom in the back, to Hippolyta again, his mind reeling. it took him a moment too long to notice Menalippe who was standing in the back, pointedly not looking at anyone in particular. She was perhaps the only person apart from Diana and Hippolyta who Steve could single out at a glance, and he figured that the almost palpable hostility radiating off her was the reason for that.

He dragged his gaze away from her, lest she notice him staring. Who know where that might go?

"I didn't think much about it until…" Hippolyta continued when no on spoke, and then trailed off, her jaw clenched against the words she didn't want to say. Steve could feel the effort she put into looking straight ahead without turning to her daughter.

"But we didn't leave by-" Steve spoke and cut himself off.

Semantics.

It was a 'sky vessel' that brought him here. He figured that for the gods, the details didn't matter.

Not that anyone seemed to hear him regardless.

"Captain Trevor was _meant_ to come here; it was his destiny as much as it was yours to leave, Diana." The Queen looked so stiff it seemed like she could snap in half any second, her voice tight. "He didn't die on the night you defeated Ares because he was not supposed to. Not yet."

"I don't understand…" Diana was staring at her mother who finally turned around slowly, a frown lodged between her eyebrows and her mouth working soundlessly as she tried to put her messy thoughts into words.

"Am I immortal?" Steve asked from behind her, the whole conversation so surreal it sounded half absurd, half insane, the very notion of fate being used in this context entirely ludicrous.

Hippolyta's gaze shifted to him. "No," she shook her head. "You will go when your time comes."

 _Which would be…?_ he wanted to prod, the question rolling on his tongue, but the words tasted foul in his mouth somehow, and the answer was something he decidedly didn't want to hear, even if there was one. And so he clamped his mouth shut and pressed his lips together for good measure, his escalated heartbeat and the heavy smell of incense making him dizzy.

It made sense, he guessed. As much as anything could make sense in the world where the women living on a secluded island referred to gods like it wasn't a big deal, like one could walk into this room any moment now. Which probably wasn't that much of a stretch, come to think of it. If nothing else, Diana was the daughter of one after all.

Although it hardly made Hippolyta's words any less outlandish, impossible.

"So, what does it mean, exactly?" He asked not without caution.

Hippolyta raised her chin, her eyes assessing him. "You're alive," was all she said before turning to Diana. She shook her head. "I suppose this answer should suffice."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Diana asked, her face a mask, her voice barely betraying the hurt. One had to know her well to hear it.

Hippolyta's eyes flickered toward Menalippe who still resembled a statue, her shoulders so tense it must have hurt. "I didn't make the connection until after it happened. And then you were gone."

"But I came back, and you still said nothing."

There was accusation and betrayal to Diana's tone, and suddenly, Steve felt like an intruder, wishing he could simply sneak out and let them finish the conversation without the prying eyes, or ears, in his case. It wasn't like anything that were to be said from this moment on could make him unhear what he'd already learned. Whether or not he believed it was another story altogether, but they might need to take one step at a time.

"And you refused to speak of anything that happened to you in man's world," her mother added. "At the time… I thought it didn't matter anymore." Her features softened, the line of her mouth less sharp, and when she spoke to Diana again, her eyes flickered toward Steve. "You're happy, you said so yourself. Must you question the will of gods, Diana? Captain Trevor lived because you needed him to."

"But… why?"

"You tell me."

Diana glanced at Steve as well, and then nodded, more in acknowledgement than gratitude, he could practically hear the wheels in her mind turn. Her hands balled into fists and then uncurled slowly.

"It's late," Hippolyta said after a few moments when the silence hanging between them grew too heavy. "I believe you had an eventful day." And maybe Steve was only imagining it, but he had a distinct suspicion that she was speaking of his fighting misadventures, and hopefully not whatever happened in the caves.

Come to think, he was in luck that Hippolyta had other people to carry her messages for her.

Diana nodded again and looked away from her mother. "Yes, we should… I will see you in the morning."

"And, Diana?" Hippolyta's voice called after them when Steve already pulled the door open, both of them stopping in their tracks. "I arranged for Captain's belongings to be moved to your chambers. For everyone's convenience."

xoox

"Well, this was… informative," Steve breathed out when the door to Diana's room closed behind them and leaned against it, rubbing his forehead as if he could physically rearrange his thoughts, somehow having more questions than before the conversation with the Queen.

Diana walked over to the vanity table and started to unfasten her bracelets, her fingers pulling at the buckles automatically with sure, practiced moves. He watched her in silence, her back rigid and her lips pressed together, the sharp outline of her profile seemingly etched from a piece of granite.

"Do you think it's real at all?" She asked after a long moment, her voice hollow somehow.

He grimaced a little and ran his hand over his hair, not quite certain that he'd actually heard what he thought he heard, and maybe asking Hippolyta to repeat it all, and slower this time, wasn't that bad an idea. "Well, from my perspective, the whole notion of fate…"

"No," she interjected, placing her bracelets down next to her hairbrush, still not looking at him, "I mean us. You and me. Is it real or are we just following that path because it was laid out before us?"

Steve's pulse stuttered. He swallowed and then pushed off the door, stepping toward her and stopping again, trying to hear how it all sounded to _her_ as he racked his brain for something to say and coming up empty. For the second time in less than an hour, he felt dizzy from the enormity of something that he didn't know how to process

Of course, it was real. It was the realest thing that ever happened to him.

"I don't know what brought me here, a coincidence or something that was predestined long before either of us existed," Steve said at last, "but I never _had_ to fall in love you. Nothing… no gods could make it happen against my will."

Diana looked up then, her bottom lip caught between her teeth and her face a storm of emotions – doubt, confusion, disbelief, all mixed into one until there was a hurricane raging in her eyes.

"Do you really believe that?"

Cold fear trickled down his spine as he watched her, struggling to ignore the panic churning inside him. "Do you not? You think it'd be different if you knew? You think it's different _now_? Now that you know…" he trailed off.

"No, Steve, never," she responded without hesitation and ran an unsteady hand through her hair, her eyes begging him to understand. "I'm just… I'm tired of those half lies. And…" she offered him a small, sad smile. "It would've been nice to have a heads-up before I knew what it's like to watch you die and think I'd never see you again, however it all works."

He rubbed his cheek, his skin prickly with stubble. "Yeah, maybe for that."

If anything, Steve thought, he should be the scared one, considering that 'his time' was hardly a definitive measure, and technically, he could probably drop dead any moment if some higher power decided that he'd served his purpose, whatever it was. It was a peculiar feeling though, to know that the overwhelming amount of new information left him numb to the ramifications of… whatever happened to him. He wasn't sure that he believed Hippolyta, the very idea of destiny sounding utterly ludicrous in his mind, but there was nothing else, no other explanation he could hold on to.

And then he remembered something…

"You told your mother that you were happy," he noted, hoping he didn't sound as self-satisfied as he felt, his voice dropping and his smile getting less strained, less uncertain.

Diana allowed her lips to stretch wider, concerned lines on her face smoothing out. She trailed her fingers along the marble surface of her vanity table before turning to him, even the line of her shoulders relaxing before Steve's eyes.

"It's never been a secret, has it?" She pointed out.

"Yes, but…" he cleared his throat, certain that saying anything else would be begging for praise. There was nothing in all of creation that could explain this, _them_ , and the fact that he somehow got someone like her to love him. It never ceased to amazing Steve, and he knew that it never would. His eyes skittered around for a second before fastening on hers again. "That story, the _prophecy_ …" it felt odd to say it, and he wondered if she heard it, his skepticism that he simply couldn't help, at least for now. "It changes nothing, Diana. You're still everything to me. You're my whole universe."

She glanced away and he stepped toward her, hands framing her face, lifting it until their eyes met again. "C'mere," Steve leaned his forehead to hers for a moment before brushing a kiss to it. "I mean it, every word." Her fingers closed around fistfuls of his shirt as Steve pulled her to him. He let out a slow breath. "Let's go to bed, okay? It's late and I feel like someone beat me with a stick. Which I'm pretty sure is exactly what happened."

A faint smile touched Diana's lips. "At least I get to sleep in my own bed for once."

"I didn't hear you complain last night, or the five before that," Steve countered, feeling the mood change, the air around them less charged by the second.

He helped her take her armour off, as familiar with it by now as she was. He slipped the long gown over her head, making her laugh – _"I'm not a child, Steve,"_ \- and stripped down to his undershirt and boxers before crawling into bed next to her, bone-tired. Diana rolled over to curl into him, her breathing already deep and relaxed, and Steve felt the tension lift off him. She kissed him before tucking her head under his chin, her body nestled into his.

"Are you okay?" She asked softly. "I know it's a lot—it's not what I expected to hear."

"Yeah." He wasn't. He wasn't sure that he was but okay was not the word for that. However… "Your mother is right. Being alive should be enough, no?"

"I can't imagine it being otherwise."

"You really refused to speak of me?" Steve breathed out after a pause, unsure if he actually said it out loud until she responded.

"I missed you. It hurt," Diana admitted, and then, "A universe, really?" She murmured into his shirt.

He pecked her on the crown of her head, finally allowing his eyes to drop shut. "All the stars and galaxies and everything else," he agreed, his mind slipping into a deep, dreamless slumber.

xoox

There had to be a map of this place, Steve decided the following day as he took another turn and instead of seeing a familiar staircase he was actually looking for, he ended up in yet another corridor. How big was this place, exactly? Maybe he could start on something while he was still here, map out the basics to maybe avoid getting lost for a dozen more times, and having to pretend that he was just 'having a look around' if someone asked.

This morning, he woke up to Diana already dressed and on the way to the door, her hair pulled into a tight braid, and he had no idea how she managed to look so radiant and awake this early in the morning when the sun barely inched over the horizon, the air still pleasantly cool, hours away from stifling humidity he was surprisingly getting used to. Yet, she was so beautiful it all but took his breath away.

"Stay," he murmured when she leaned over to kiss him a good morning.

She smiled, brushing her hand through his hair. "Sleep. I will get them to bring you some food."

"Or… we could eat it together," he offered, stealing another quick kiss.

"I'll see you later," she promised, pulling away from him, and Steve could probably think of a million other ways for them to spend this morning, but instead he rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in her pillow that smelled like sunshine and Diana, and her laugh was the last thing he heard before he fell asleep again, warm in the early-morning sunlight and lulled by the whisper of the sea.

But that was a few hours ago, and the breakfast came and went, and eventually, he figured out that she was most likely taking advantage of being able to train properly while they were here – he proved being an enthusiastic but rather useless sparring partner for someone of her caliber and, well, strength, experience, endurance, and the list could go on for quite a while. His own muscles still ached from yesterday, and even though he was certain that no permanent internal damage was inflicted, Steve decided to steer clear of the training field for the time being.

Hence, trying to find the library that Diana mentioned the other day and that he, after everything she'd told him about this place, couldn't wait to sneak a peek at. Also, without her, Steve wasn't quite sure what to do with himself, and after the last night's conversation, he had too much on his mind and an endless urge to block it out for now.

Diana had explained to him earlier where to find the library and the throne room, which he requested out of sheer curiosity, however, it clearly wasn't detailed enough.

Steve was starting to think of going back where he came from, and maybe starting again – provided he could do that without getting even more stranded. And it wasn't like he had much of a choice. Maybe he could swing by the kitchen as well, he mused. They always had some treats for him, and he appreciated the company even if half of the residents of the castle still looked at him like he was some otherworldly creature.

Truth be told, half the time he felt that way.

And then he stopped short, caught off-guard when Hippolyta rounded the corner, followed by two women who walked half a step behind her in a perfect formation.

"Your Highness," Steve muttered, bowing his head on instinct and lowering his eyes. He took a step aside, moving out of the Queen's way.

He expected a curt nod and an impassive greeting in response before she was on her way, but instead she paused in her tracks, not quite surprised, but considering something.

"Captain. Is everything alright?" She asked after a moment of hesitation.

Steve glanced up. He wasn't sure how he felt about her, deep respect for the ruler of these people was mixing with slight irritation over what she'd put Diana through with the secrets that could have been avoided so easily.

For a moment, he thought of lying, telling her that he was heading someplace or other, however the idea of being called out on it – and he had a feeling that she'd know – was unsettling.

"Yes, I was just… I think I took the wrong turn," he admitted in the end, doing his best to stand taller and look more composed than he felt.

Hippolyta studied him for a second, her calm gaze locked with his, then nodded curtly, and Steve thought that this would be the end of their interaction. In all the time he'd spent here, she showed no hostility or animosity toward him, which was probably more than he could ask for, considering that he inadvertently was the reason of the German attack that led to the death of her sister and her daughter's departure from the island.

Truth be told, Steve wasn't sure he'd be this generous if he was in her shoes.

Yet, she expressed little to no interest in him, either, and aside from the previous night, they barely said a few words to one another, aside from an occasional greeting. Quite frankly, after he'd seen her stab and behead the German soldiers on that beach, the memory of which was still painfully fresh in his mind, this particular arrangement was fine with him.

Which only made his surprise so much more profound when Hippolyta asked, "Do you have a moment?"

He doubted it was really a question.

"Of course," he replied nonetheless and she brushed past him, leading the way.

Steve followed her down the corridor and through the tall set of doors into a cavernous room with high ceiling and a massive balcony overlooking the village below and an endless stretch of the brilliant water. He knew that it was impossible to see beyond the barrier that protected the island from the rest of the world, but had that not been the case, he was certain he'd be able to spot Italy, so clear the sky was.

The guards didn't follow them inside, and for a long moment, it was just him and the Queen, looking at the island from several hundred feet above everyone else.

"I wanted to thank you. For taking good care of my daughter," Hippolyta said just as he started to believe that the sole reason for her invitation was to show him the view.

Steve shifted form foot to foot, not knowing how to take it. "I'm not sure I do. Diana doesn't need anyone to take care of her. She is more than capable of doing it herself."

"I know. But I appreciate it nonetheless." He saw a faint smile cross her features, fleeting and gone before he knew it. "You don't believe me," Hippolyta added. "I don't expect you to. There's a reason why my people and yours don't coexist. _Can't_ coexist."

Steve turned her words in his head, silent for a long second. "No, I do believe you." He wasn't sure _she_ believed _him_ when he said that, though. "However, there's more to the story than you told us, I believe that, too." Was this kind of honestly going to cost him his life, he wondered. "You're hard to read, you know. And I spent most of my life doing just that to survive."

Hippolyta didn't look at him, her gaze glued to something down below on the beach, and when Steve followed it, he spotted a few figures galloping along the surf, the water spraying from under the hooves of black stallions. Diana among them, unmistakable.

"She was a happy child," Hippolyta said, and he wasn't sure for a moment if she was talking to him or to herself. "She had a happy life here. But I have never seen her the way she is when you're around. It's like you ignited the light inside her that no one else could."

 _I love her_ , Steve thought, but the words didn't come out. He swallowed, following the figure below with his eyes, leaned close to the horse's neck, a tiny spot among half a dozen others, until they disappeared around the outcropping of rocks.

"She told me what happened to you, years ago, and recently, too. Told me that you could have died… _should_ have died, but it didn't happen. Nothing did, in fact."

"Luck?" Steve suggested, not sure of there was a question in her words, a foreboding of something terrible settling in his stomach. "I thought you gave us an answer to that mystery already."

"Luck is for fools," Hippolyta shook her head. "As for what I said last night… The prophecy is real, and for my people, it's not an empty sound, regardless of whether it means anything to you or not, but ask yourself this – what was the common denominator in both of the instances when your life was supposed to end?"

She might have as well punched him in the stomach.

Steve's mouth went dry. "Diana."

How did he not think of that? Was he that blindsided?

"Only a god can grant life, Captain," Hippolyta said when Steve didn't respond. "Diana is the daughter of one."

She paused, waiting for the information to sink in, and once it did, Steve felt all air whiz out of his body. His fingers dug painfully into the marble railing of the balcony, unsteady all of a sudden on the floor that swayed beneath him.

He turned to Hippolyta slowly, half hoping that she would laugh, tell him she was joking.

She didn't.

"You mean, she did it?" He asked dumbly. " _Diana_ did it? She… she _revived_ me?" The word tasted odd in his mouth, not quite right, and Steve wished he hadn't said it.

Hippolyta's voice softened. "I think Diana wanted you to live so bad that she found the power inside her to make it happen."

"Is that why I don't age anymore?"

"You must understand that there had never been anyone like her, maybe never will be again. Her powers, the strength she carried inside her… I don't think anyone truly know what she is capable of. Not even Diana' herself."

Steve's mouth went dry and his voice was raspy when he spoke. "Does she know? That she… that she's capable of doing that?"

"I don't think so. Otherwise she'd try to do more, save the others."

There was something about her tone, the way she hesitated to choose her words very carefully and an unmistakable concern that made Steve sick to his stomach.

"Did it do anything to her? Helping me?" He asked softly, his whole body humming like he was going to pass out, like someone suddenly sucked all oxygen out of the room.

Hippolyta stayed quiet for a few seconds too long, allowing only the rustling of the trees in the breeze and the gentle whisper of the surf far below the castle to fill the space between them. He knew the answer then, before she gave sound to it.

"You would probably know that better than me," she responded when Steve was starting to think that the conversation was over, that maybe she'd figured that he'd put two and two together. That maybe she gave him at least some credit, after all, although the realization had a bittersweet tang to it. "Whether or not she's gotten weaker."

He swallowed hard, the bile rising up his throat.

How could he be so stupid?

In Paris, she was power incarnate, anything but weak, but that bloody cut she'd gotten on the glass a few months back, the one that he had to tend to in his hole of an apartment in Berlin… it should have been gone in minutes.

When they were in London, after that time when she went to Germany without him while he was still stuck in the damned hospital, it took her longer to heal than usual, the cuts and bruises lingering on her skin for a few days instead of disappearing within hours. At the time, Steve didn't think much of it. She was still no match to any human, his own healing painfully slow by comparison. He even joked about how her bones probably couldn't break at all. Hell, any human would get disintegrated if they attempted to do what she'd done between the First World War and now.

But for her, it was not the same. For her, it had to have been different, had to have _felt_ different.

He never forgot about who Diana was – _what_ she was – not for a moment, but she wasn't made of glass and steel, her strength tamed around him enough to dim the memories of her ripping through armies like they were nothing. In his arms, she was simply a woman, soft and warm, often needing to remind him that he didn't have to be so delicate with her and treat her like she could break under his touch. Sometimes, he forgot _to_ _remember_ that her strength was inherent and crucial, that she needed that undercurrent of power surging through her to survive the things that she was putting herself through to save mankind when no one else could or would.

Did this mean that saving him broke her?

"What I do know is that those dreams she's having," Hippolyta spoke again when Steve didn't anything, not needing his answer, "they're not hers."

He inhaled sharply. "Mine? Are they mine?"

 _I'm still doing it to her, hurting her_.

"Why are you telling me this?" He asked, the words rolling like dry pebbles in his mouth, choking him. "Why now? Why not last night?"

"Because it's not about Diana, it's about you, Captain Trevor." She pressed her lips together, as if debating whether or not to say more. "I've paid a very high price for keeping the truth about Diana's father from her, and I'm not going to do it again, but this is your life and what you do with this information is up to you." He could barely hear her through the blood pumping in his ears. "The one thing I want you to remember, Captain, is that Diana would do anything to protect you."

Steve's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white and his breathing shallow. He inhaled and then exhaled slowly, trying to get a grip on reality again.

"Would it be better for her if I…" he swallowed, hard, "if I wasn't around?"

Hippolyta turned to him, her face grief-stricken and her eyes tired – the first real emotions she'd let slip since Steve met her.

"Don't do it," she shook her head. "Don't break my daughter's heart."

Steve nodded, more to himself than to her. "I'm taking it as a yes," he muttered, holding her gaze – a boldness he'd never allowed himself before. Not that he had that much to lose now. Jesus Christ…

"It's not why I told you this."

"Then why?"

"Because you deserve to know."

"At this point, I'm not sure I deserve anything," he breathed out.

She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out, and after a second or two, Steve turned away, his eyes on the brightness of the ocean, and the sun that made it look like someone scattered a handful of diamond along its surface and they were glimmering so blindingly it hurt to look.

He tried to find comfort in the fact that at least Hippolyta didn't lie to his face, but it felt like a small consolation.

 **To be continued...**

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for the amazing feedback and all the love, I appreciate it beyond words!

Feel free to have a go at what you think will happen next...


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note** : This was supposed to be a filler chapter, merely a transition between the previous and the next one, and yet it turned out to be the longest one yet. Go figure...

Thank you guys for the amazing feedback and for sticking around! You're awesome and I can't thank you enough :)

And on that happy note, allow me to ruin everything...

* * *

 _Themyscira, 1945_

"Am I human?" Steve asked Hippolyta before she'd finished their conversation and left him alone in the cavernous room, the words tasting odd in his mouth and the concept so wild he couldn't believe he'd even thought of it.

"Of course, you are," she responded, surprised. "What else would you be?"

What else?

He was mulling over her question now, sitting on the sand a few hours later and watching the sun sink into the ocean, bright orange, making the water rippling beneath it look black. Arms resting on the propped-up knees and toes digging into the soft white sand, he stared at the blinding sliver of light until it started to feel like he might go blind. Until it disappeared completely, and the dusk settled around him, turning the sky pale-blue near the water and deep indigo above his head, and inside him, there was emptiness the likes of which Steve never knew before.

What else… He was on the island surrounded by women thousands of years old; women who might have witnessed the creation of the world as he knew it, strong and vigorous, possessing the qualities beyond anything Steve could ever imagine. Beyond anything he could understand even now, even after all this time. He was in love with a demi-goddess capable of bending the laws of life and death to her will, a surge of power coursing beneath her skin every time he touched her. Was it really that wild to assume that he might be more than what he always thought he was?

Did he _want_ to be more?

"There you are."

Diana's voice pulled him to the surface before the vortex of thoughts threatening to suck him into the void from which there was no way out accomplished doing just that.

Steve looked up and saw her walk toward him across the strip of sand, smiling that soft smile of hers that was making his heart squeeze in his chest every single time without fail, like some kind of Pavlovian reflex, no less. There was no sword in her hand, no shield behind her back, her step easy, relaxed. A warrior still, but more than just that, too.

"I've been looking everywhere for you. Thought you'd escaped," she teased him, lowering down to sit next to him, the light breeze tugging at the wisps of hair that unraveled from her braid and that were fluttering around her cheeks.

From this close, he could smell scented oil, grass, and something sweet on her skin, feel her warmth in the pleasantly cool evening that was a nice reward for making it through the stifling heat and humidity of the sunny afternoon, and mixed together, they were entirely intoxicating, making everything inside him ache.

"That'd be a very long swim," Steve noted, turning to her, feeling the wind push his hair back from his forehead and snake through his shirt. "I just needed to…" He started and trailed off.

It was dark enough now that her face was almost completely obscured, the light from the town not reaching this far back and the whisper of the surf swallowing all sounds save for the breath of the trees that rustled gently nearby and the whoosh of the waves lapping against the sand echoing in nooks and crevices of the cliffs towering above them. How on earth she knew where to look for him Steve had no idea. He could barely navigate this place even in proper daylight.

"Escape?" Diana offered, amused.

He chuckled and shook his head. "Yeah, I guess."

It was easier that way, when she couldn't see him, when the night could hide the secrets that he knew his face would betray. The key here was to continue breathing like nothing had changed.

For a few moments, they simply sat there, looking at the waves that were nothing but a mass of black fringed with foam. And then she leaned closed to him and rested her chin on his shoulder, her hand curling around his bicep, warm through the sleeve of his shirt.

"What have you been up to today?" Diana asked softly, her words nearly drowning in the voice of the ocean and her breath warm on his cheek.

"Not much," Steve muttered, the things that he was planning to tell her, everything that Hippolyta revealed to him – because she needed to know, _had the right_ to know even more so than he, perhaps – choking him, lodged in his throat.

"I knew you'd get bored here," she noted. He could hear her smile.

"Not by a long shot, I promise you."

She brushed her hand through his hair, her fingers skimming lightly over the shadow of stubble on his cheek. "Is everything okay, Steve?"

He nodded slowly, and then once again, with more enthusiasm. It was so easy to forget sometimes how effortlessly she could read him, if only because there wasn't often any need for it, his thoughts, his life an open book; at least with her.

"Yes." He placed his hand on top of hers.

"Then what is it?"

"How did you leave this place?" Steve whispered, his gaze skimming over the barely visible stretch of the ocean, its whisper lulling him into thinking that all was right in the world. He turned to her again. "It's peaceful. Safe. You can have everything here. You're happy." He paused, his thumb running in circles over her knuckles. "I can't imagine you wanting to leave again."

Diana moved closed. Her lips brushed lightly to his chin before touching his mouth, feather-light. She leaned her forehead against him temple. "I can."

xoox

 _Italy, 1945_

Peace, as it turned out, was a fleeting and fragile thing. They might have stopped dropping bombs on one another, but at times it felt like the war had never ended. Like it merely paused to give him a moment to catch their breaths. At times, it felt like the world would never stop needing to be saved. The conflict was not as open anymore, but no less intense nonetheless, all under a cloak of secrecy and darkness, hiding in plain sight but always there.

In an attempt to escape this never-ending battle for something or other, for what was good and right, Steve took her to Italy, and while Diana didn't see any particular romance in riding gondolas, claiming that if there was any _love_ to dark, murky waters of the channels, she didn't want to have anything to do with it, they immensely enjoyed strolling along narrow, foggy streets of Venice, watching the swans from the bridges that seemingly kept the place together, stopping the houses from floating away.

There was beauty in simplicity, to living in the moment - something that neither of them was used to. It turned out that being sucked into the war and waiting for one for centuries wasn't that much different after all. And not having to deal with either felt pretty damn incredible.

Steve bought bread from tiny bakeries tucked away narrow alleys, and they fed it pigeons and seagulls on St. Mark's Square until their cheeks turned pink from the cold. There was peace to wandering around the place they knew nothing about, where every turn of the street held nothing but anticipation of something new.

They ate gelato despite chilly November wind and drank hot chocolate sitting in tiny cafes that were half-empty because of the foul weather. They held hands to keep them warm and talked about nothing, the sound of their voices somehow more important than the words that were being said. He kissed her cold fingers and smiled because she was smiling at him, uncertain how a person could contain so much hove within them without their heart bursting from this fullness.

And in her smile, he found his salvation.

They drove southward where the fog was less persistent, and the green of olive groves remained intact even though the trees were mostly bare this late in the year, and rented a house for several nights from an old woman who scolded them grimly for the absence of wedding rings. Ever a charmer, Steve smiled and offered her a few compliments while Diana struggled not to burst out laughing, standing next to him, and the key traveled from the woman's hand and into his. He could almost feel her judgement, her frown somehow making it all the more exhilarating.

"What was that about?" Diana asked him later when the door to the guest house, one of many scattered along the seaside, closed and he crouched in front of a fireplace to start the fire to warm the place up, poking at the logs until the spark caught on while she shrugged off her coat and draped over the back of an armchair.

"We're not married, see," he chuckled and shook his head. "In these parts, it's frowned upon… for an unmarried man and woman to spend the night together, I'm guessing."

Diana's eyebrow crept all the way up to her hairline. "Is this why you called her _divine_ and _enticing_?"

Steve stood up and pulled her to him for a lingering, thorough kiss that left them both breathless, her hand curled over a fistful of his shirt.

"I figured you wouldn't want to sleep in the car," he muttered.

Diana draped her arms around his neck. "If memory serves me right, this was exactly why you didn't want to sleep with me on the boat that night when we left Themyscira," she noted nonchalantly.

Steve groaned. "It wasn't that I didn't _want_ to," he started and stopped himself, very aware of the fact that his cheeks grew hot, and knowing that Diana noticed it, too, undoubtedly enjoying it. "I was trying to be respectful. The lack of wanting had nothing to do with it. Because I did, I wanted to-" He took a breath and looked up, studying the white ceiling. "I need to stop taking now."

He tried to step away from her, not quite certain what it was what was making him so flustered. It wasn't like he hadn't see all of her so many times he'd long lost count, and his desire was barely ever a secret.

"Now I feel bad about taking advantage of your virtue," Diana sighed dramatically, tightening her hold on him just enough to keep him where he was, although it was her words that got Steve to cock his head, his eyebrow quirked – challenge accepted.

"My _virtue_?" He echoed, mock-appalled, his hand running absently over the small of her back.

"Don't you remember? I had to practically _beg_ you to share a pile of blankets with me," she pointed out.

"Beg? Well, if that's what you want to believe," he made a dramatic pause, for emphasis and all that. "And I'm sorry, but if memory serves _me_ right, I was the one-"

"Not to mention that night in Veld," she continued.

"What about it?" Steve frowned, alarmed. "Because once again, no begging was required."

"You really want to talk about who did what?" She interjected with a giggle, and he pointedly clamped his mouth shut.

For a long moment, Steve simply looked at her, taking note of a mischievous glint in her eyes, the playful curve of her mouth, and a very obvious enjoyment radiating off her, and then he cleared his throat. "No, this is literally the last thing I want to discuss." Diana laughed, and he felt his lips quirk in response, finding it hard to hold back his own smile. "You just made it sound like I was some innocent maiden. Which is not a bad thing," he added diplomatically. "I just… wasn't."

"I know that," she leaned in, rubbing her nose into his cheek before finding his mouth with hers in a slow, sensual kiss. Her hand moved up from his neck and tangled in his hair, her back arching into him. "I know all about that."

"You want me to show you again?" He murmured against her mouth and she silenced him with her lips.

Blindly, Steve reached for the wall to turn off the lights, plunging the whole place into complete darkness, the stillness of the night only interrupted by the rustling of the wind in the trees outside and the sound of their clothes falling on the floor.

There was no way of knowing what tomorrow held, or the day after that, or the day after that one. They couldn't, he'd learned a long time ago, rewrite history. But they could make it, and tonight Diana was his, her hands in his hair, everywhere on his body, her lips hot against his skin, and her whisper making him shiver in the best way imaginable. Nothing else mattered.

Sometimes, rather often, Steve couldn't remember the life before her.

xoox

"What are you running away from, Trevor?" Billy, a skinny kid with the face so freckled he looked perpetually tan, asked Steve one night when they were granted a few rare and precious hours of free time before the drills were to resume the following morning, and the whole base decided to drown in beer, catching up on the nights that didn't belong to them.

"Dunno what you're talking about," Steve snorted, taking a swig from his bottle and allowing the lukewarm drink to pour down his throat and settle heavily in his stomach in anticipation of the pleasant buzz in his head and the warmth that would make his limbs heavy, his muscles relaxed in that way that no longer felt familiar.

The normally half-empty cafeteria was packed, every recruit who managed to drag his sorry ass from the hangars and sleeping quarters crammed in a space meant for half this number of people, and the conversations were punctuated with outbursts of laughter and an occasional curse when someone spilled his drink or tripped over someone else's outstretched legs. Not exactly Steve's idea of a night off, but he didn't mind, feeling oddly alive and relaxed. In the months that had passed since he'd first arrived here, he'd learned to appreciate the small things and moments of freedom like never before.

Billy shrugged and downed the rest of his own drink – and Steve wondered which one it was, the kid's eyes already glazed over. Not the first one for certain. Normally, at least five were needed to warrant small talk about something more personal than 'Got a sig?'

"You're like a Devil in the sky," the words came out a little slurred, almost swallowed by the buzz and the clinking of the glass. "Or like you have one chasing you. What is it?"

Steve's mouth twisted into a smirk, "Your dirty socks, for one thing." He stood up, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor. He jerked his chin toward his mate's empty bottle. "Want another one?"

He thought about Billy's question that night, lying on a narrow cot in one of the barracks, unsure if it was the heat that was keeping him awake or his mind that wouldn't shut up. The truth was that it wasn't about the _from_ so much as about the _toward_ , although toward _what_ Steve wasn't sure even now, after he'd lived several lifetimes in his rather brief time on earth, and yet the answer was still nowhere to be found. Happiness, perhaps. A sense of purpose that remained evasive for as long as he was alive. He'd long lost the naïve delusion about making a difference in the world, about his actions amounting to anything that truly counted - the wars made sure to strip him of that - but the sense of longing for something big never went away, although it dulled just enough for Steve to ignore it now and then.

Sometimes, lying next to Diana at night as she slept, his gaze trained on the ceiling, he could still feel the echo of this old yearning for something he couldn't put into words resonate deep inside him, but with her, it had ebbed, like she was taking the edge off it. Like she was the _where_ , albeit not as constant or static as Steve ever expected it to be.

Other times, the pull was stronger, the sensation of still being on the run burning through him, hotter than fire. The thing that pushed him to chase the sky in the first place still simmering under his skin.

He found her one morning curled up in an old armchair, a quilt wrapped around her shoulders against the drafts of an old house. Her gaze was glued to the flames dancing in the fireplace, her hair spilling down her back. It was so early the room was almost dark still, the small window overlooking the sea keeping the tentative light of a new day away. There was no surprise here though, she rarely slept past dawn - old habits and all that.

After a failed attempt to coax her into coming back with him for another few hours of rest, Steve squeezed into a tiny space next to her, earning peals of boisterous laughter in response and ignoring her feigned fight for more room until their limbs were tangled, and it impossible to tell what belonged to whom.

"I don't like sleeping without you," he said softly, tucking the quilt around them and wiggling underneath it to cajole another smile out of her. "The bed feels too big."

"But no one is stealing the covers," she pointed out.

"I'm used to fighting for them," he countered eagerly.

"And your pillow," Diana added.

He shrugged, "I don't mind sharing."

"No one is kicking you under the blankets," she was struggling to keep her smile at bay, her head resting against the back of the armchair, watching him not without amusement.

"I've had worse things to wake up to," Steve shook his head dismissively, and arched an eyebrow expectantly, brushing her hair from her cheek.

Diana offered him a small, wry smile. "You were snoring."

Steve's jaw dropped comically. "I was not!" He protested, appalled and defensive, his chest puffing at the audacity of this accusation.

"You were, too," she insisted.

"Are you sure it was me and not you?"

She traced her finger along his jawline. He could see the firelight reflecting in her eyes as he watched her in silence, trying to hear the things she wasn't saying. She was awfully easy to read sometimes, the amount of openness catching him off-guard now and then, what with his own life being so tangled in lies and secrets that he often didn't know where to find the ends to unravel them. Not that he wanted to. Sometimes, being someone else was easier. Knowing that Diana could see him for who and what he was seemed to be enough.

There was a small frown lodged between her eyebrows, but before he could pry for more, Diana dropped her forehead on his shoulder, her hand curling around his. She laced her finger through his.

"Are you okay, really?" Steve asked, brushing a kiss to the crown of her head, his voice less playful, very soft.

"Sometimes, I dream of my lasso snapping and my shield breaking," she murmured into his skin. "After the sword that I thought could defeat a god of war himself turned to dust in my hands, nothing feels strong enough anymore." A pause. "The time… it runs differently here. It is not as infinite as I'm used to. It will take a while before I can forget—some things." She lifted her head to find his gaze again. "It will take some getting used to."

He could see that she wanted to add something else, but instead Diana merely leaned into him. Steve's arm curled around her as he pushed the questions swarming in his mind away.

He called her fearless once, only half-joking, if only because she was so much _more_. Surely, their petty, trivial concerns weren't of any interest to her. The things he'd seen her do left little doubt regarding the extent of her bravery.

"No one is completely fearless," Diana responded then with a small shake of her head.

"What are you scared of?" Steve asked, watching her closely.

She looked up from the book she was reading and put it away, a shadow of something he couldn't quite grasp before it was gone crossed her features. Something so achingly sad that it splintered his heart in half a second that he saw it.

"Of losing you," Diana said after a short hesitation. "I have never seen death until Antiope bled out in my arms. Not a person's death… it's different when it's just a story, isn't it?" Her voice cracked ever so slightly. "She was the closest friend I had, a second mother, someone I trusted to be alive forever." She looked away from him, breaking the eye contact as if holding Steve's gaze was suddenly too much to bear, and rubbed her forehead. "And then you—in that plane… I'm scared of losing everyone that I love. Of being too late the next time something bad happens."

Steve crossed the room, walking over to the couch where she was sitting, and offered her his hand. Diana raised her glance and took it, and he pulled her up to her feet, his blue eye darting between hers, willing her worry away as if he could fix it with the power of his mind. He looped her hair around her ear, trailing his fingertips down her cheek. He let out an unsteady breath, drawing her to him and wrapping his arms around her – a reassurance that he needed as much as she, if not more.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised.

"It may not be your decision to make."

"It's not your job to save me," Steve told her, meaning it with everything that he was.

"Maybe so," she didn't argue, leaning into him, "But it doesn't make it any less terrifying."

He was still thinking about that when Diana somehow miraculously dozed off after a while, still crammed into the damned armchair and pressed to him, lulled by the warmth of his body, and Steve watched the fire turn to red embers and die in the hearth as he held her, his cheek resting on the crown of her head. They all feared something, even the gods. Maybe gods more than anyone else, he mused, listening to her even breathing, if only because they'd have to live with those losses for much longer than the rest of them all.

On the morning before they were to leave Italy, they climbed down the steep streets and countless stone steps toward the sea that was steel-grey and moody, the wind throwing sand and sprays of salt water in their faces, and it crystallised on their cheeks whenever they dared to come too close to the surf, the stones lining the thin line of the beach dangerously slippery under their feet.

They were rather close to Themyscira, Steve realized with a start. Closer than anywhere else in Europe, perhaps. Watching Diana watch the angry waves, he wondered if they'd actually be able to see the island from here had it not been hidden from the prying eyes by gods who believed that mankind was not worthy of their protection. At least not enough to know where to look for it.

Her hair was gathered into a braid and the breeze was tugging at the strands that escaped it. She turned to him after a long moment, her face scrunched and her eyes narrowed against the wind. "Do you believe that people can love each other until death?"

Steve brushed a wisp of dark hair from her cheek, his eyes taking in her expression that reflected the stormy sea before them.

"I do."

xoox

 _London, 1947_

London was starting to feel like home.

Steve never expected it to, with its unpredictable weather, grey sky that seemed to be keeping the whole place captive for weeks on end, the smell of seaweed blowing in all way from the English Channel, and the often-stale whiff of the River Thames. Crowded alleys and pubs, the jokes he didn't always understand bouncing along the streets, the beer that tasted differently from what he was used to. A million other things that were alien in the ways Steve couldn't always grasp that made him feel like an outsider.

And yet, it felt more familiar than the rest of the world. Maybe it was because this was where everything had started back in 1918, a new life as he knew it. Or maybe it was because it was so different from everything that he was trying to forget.

"We could go anywhere, you know," he had said to Diana once, soon after they'd returned from Themyscira even though he'd assured her that he'd be happy to stay if she so wished.

There was an old globe sitting on the desk in his living room, once belonging to his father, now an antiquity. Diana raised a quizzical eyebrow at him when he pointed at it.

"Pick a place," Steve shrugged.

She touched it, pushed it with her fingers until it was spinning so fast that the countries were nothing but patches of blurred yellow among the vastness of blue, and then shook her head.

"Belonging… it's not about a place on the map."

Steve didn't object.

What did it matter, really? He doubted there was a corner in this world where he'd manage to forget Hippolyta's words, pretend that they were never said. Pretend that they weren't wrapped around him like a vice, squeezing the life out of him.

It wasn't until Etta retired and chose to move to the south of England, away from the hectic hassle of the city, that their ties to the place began to feel loose, unravelling before their eyes, no longer an anchor so much as a chain keeping them trapped. The stifling air of familiar streets started to feel like it was suffocating them, his restlessness making him want to crawl out of his skin.

He pretended that it was the routine that began to get to him, the things that he'd been stuck with for too long that were wearing him thin now, and that moving away from them was an answer.

He pretended that it wasn't himself that he was trying to get away from in a desperate attempt to _forget_.

xoox

 _Brussels, 1948_

Steve woke up to Diana crying in her sleep, silently, without waking up, her pillow soaked with tears. Her breathing was shallow, her shoulders trembling ever so slightly – the very thing that pulled Steve out of his slumber while her own mind refused to let go of her, her fingers bunching fistfuls of sheets holding on so tight that her knuckles had turned white.

His heart sank, his stomach coiling instantly.

It scared him when this happened, when there was nothing he could do, nothing he could fix, nothing to make it go away for good, to shield her from the things that were hurting her in a way that no one else could see. When her pain was palpable and so real that seemed to take all the space around them.

Diana had told him once that the most overwhelming grief was never loud. It lacked theatrics and expressiveness. Instead, it was silent, still even, barely betraying itself to the outsiders. Invisible. This was what it looked like now – like she was mourning a loss so deep that she was scared it might tear her apart if she'd let it be known. Like her pain was so strong she needed to physically keep it from spilling out and swallowing her whole.

"Diana," he whispered softly, careful not to startle her, his fingers light on her arm; pressed a kiss to her shoulder when she didn't respond and called her again, "Diana…"

Slowly, unwillingly, her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at him, disoriented. "What…"

"You were—you were crying," Steve murmured, trailing his thumb over her cheek to wipe away the tears, a hollow pit in his stomach threatening to turn him inside out. "A bad dream."

She blinked in momentary confusion, nearly flinching away from his touch, and took in a shaky breath. "I'm sorry."

"Don't. Please don't," he kissed her on the temple, mindful of how her chest was still heaving, how rigid she felt. "Don't say that. It was just a dream, it's over"

 _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry_.

"Steve…"

He smoothed down her hair, his fingers soothing on her face. She was looking at him, and he was suddenly at a loss, uncertain what was there to do, the words felt empty and useless and not enough.

"Let me get you a glass of water," Steve murmured, but Diana shook her head, her fingers curling around his wrist, his own heartbeat too loud, almost intrusive. He moved to her and pulled her closer, folding her into the curve of his body until her warmth was the only thing he could feel, his heart hammering fast against her back and his face pressed into her neck. "Want to tell me about it?" He asked when Diana's breathing evened out, deepening as she'd calmed.

She drew her knees up to her chest, curling in on herself. "I keep losing you," her voice was muffled and so quiet he almost missed it, barely a whisper even in complete silence. "Every time I close my eyes, you die."

"No," he whispered into her skin. "It's not real, never will be. I'm here."

"It _feels_ real. Each time."

Steve closed his eyes, pushing the images away, his grip on her as tight as he could bear.

Hippolyta was right.

He prayed and hoped against all hope that she was mistaken. After all, it wasn't exact science. If anything, it was merely her speculation at the time, or so he wanted to believe, if only because there had never been anyone like Diana before, no point of reference or comparison, Hippolyta said so herself. And for a while, it seemed liked she was wrong.

For a while, everything was good. So good he could hardly believe that this was his life, making him wonder what he'd done to deserve this kind of happiness – all-consuming, blinding, so perfect the enormity of it was equally exhilarating and terrifying.

Until his demons came back the way they always did sooner or later.

Until they sank their teeth and claws into Diana, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"She would do anything to protect you, even from yourself," Hippolyta had told him that day on the balcony overlooking the island before she left Steve standing alone there, the weight of her words so heavy it was suffocating him.

Whatever happened to him on the night when Diana brought him back to life after the explosion of gas pulled him to atoms until there was nothing left of him seemed to have forged the kind of bond between them that went beyond his comprehension. Steve was no scientist, not to the degree that counted, but he knew full well what was supposed to happen to him. He made that decision perfectly aware of the fact that it was meant to be his last one, and it hurt so bad to say goodbye to her, to everything that he'd managed to dream up in the time that had passed since the moment when he'd first kissed her. It was worth it, though. It was supposed to be worth it.

Diana was bigger than this, bigger than all of them, than the world itself. She was meant for something greater than anything he could ever imagine. If all he could do was give her a chance to truly save them all, it wasn't that big of a sacrifice then. After all, he'd never aspired for anything that significant to begin with. And what was his life, really?

Had he known how it would all end, would be do it any differently? He'd asked himself that, more than once, but the answer was nowhere to be found, no matter how hard he looked for it.

It wasn't his memories that plagued her, the way he initially thought it worked, but the darkness simmering within him. All the things he'd done that he wished he could forget about. All the things that filled him with self-resentment so strong he didn't know sometimes how he was supposed to live with them. Everything that made him question the logic of the universe for it made no sense that someone like him was given a second change after the things he'd caused that deserved no forgiveness, be it for the daughter of Zeus or not. The things he'd never told a single soul about, and those who were there to witness them were long dead and buried.

All the things that he hated himself for had transformed into monsters that kept Diana awake for fear of facing them, all because on a deep, molecular level all she wanted to do was to ease his pain.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again into her hair, his chest tight.

He never told her about the conversation he'd had with her mother.

Couldn't.

Didn't know how to.

The words never came, and those that did were coated in denial and shame and fear of losing her, of Diana seeing him for what he really was. He waited, and hoped, and wished desperately for a revelation, a moment of truth that would make everything clear, each second feeling like a missed opportunity that he owed her – for saving him, having him, loving him.

But how was he supposed to keep living like this? How could he not do what was best for her?

There was something that Hippolyta had said to him that Steve hadn't registered at first, but that caught up with him after he'd had enough time to run over their conversation in his head. She'd said that he was supposed to die twice, but the France… Diana told him that he was merely unconscious, and maybe more bruised than he liked, but nothing else. Surely her mother was mistaken, and yet he couldn't shake the feeling that there was bigger picture he couldn't see. Had Diana lied to him? She wouldn't… would she? He never brought it up, couldn't, for it would mean coming clear about everything else, but it plagued his mind as he tried desperately to find the answers in the tone of her voice, between the words, in every touch of her hands.

He wondered sometimes if it made any difference, if it made anything worse, knowing that it had to, but refusing to believe it.

Selfish bastard…

"Steve?" She breathed out.

"Hm?"

Diana rolled around to face him, looked up, finding his gaze in the dark, her eyes red-rimmed and something akin panic pooling at the bottom of them. "Make me forget," she whispered.

Steve's pulse stuttered. "I don't…"

She pushed up, moving closer to him, hands on his face, in his hair, and slid into his lap, sweet weight in his arms. He could taste the salt on her mouth, on her cheeks, his own touch welcoming her traitorously, seeking the same comfort in her that she wanted from him. Steve pulled her close, hands skimming over her back and under the thin cotton of her sleeveless shirt, and she shivered, a sigh of appreciation falling from her lips.

His heart was hammering against his breastbone as if trying to break free, half-formed thoughts sparkling alive in his mind and disappearing without a trace before he could get hold of them. Diana pulled just far enough away to tug at the hem of her shirt, slipping it easily over her head. Her palms fell on his chest, her eyes locked with his in the dark gleaming with the want that was coursing through her and into him, eclipsing all reason and logic and everything in-between.

"Diana…" he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in this throat, hand reaching to cup her cheek, thread through the veil of her dark hair cascading over her shoulders.

She leaned down, kissed him again.

"I need you," she whispered, dragging her lips along his cheek, over his jaw, down his throat, her skin hot and electrifying under his touch. "I need to know that you're real."

He was more than willing to make them both forget.

xoox

She fell asleep afterwards, deeply and dreamlessly, curled into him with her arm draped across Steve's chest, fitted to him curve for curve. He, on the other hand, remained wide awake for hours, staring at the sway of shadows on the ceiling, listening to Diana's even breath, his fingers running absently over her hair, drawing soothing patterns on her skin.

Someone was talking very loudly in the apartment upstairs, not loud enough for him to make out the words but the hum of the conversation was a distracting interference, keeping him on the verge of wakefulness. There was music playing somewhere although Steve couldn't tell if it was coming from one of the other units or from the street, the people making the best of their weekend night vivid and alive before his mind's eye.

And none of it was enough to drown his feverish thoughts, the memories of Diana's hands sliding over his body almost frantically, her kisses that were hungry in a way that spoke of fear, and how she was holding on to him like he could disintegrate in her arms if she let go, each whispered word meant to be seared into them for eternity.

And all the while Steve hated himself for making her feel that way, for not being able to offer her any other reassurance than hasty, desperate kisses, and for needing her as much as he did.

When the sky turned pale blue and the shadows started to grow thin, Steve slipped out of her unresisting grasp, bleary-eyed and exhausted, and yet unable to remain still any longer. He was lucky if he managed to doze off for a couple of hours, but he couldn't think about it. He leaned down to brush lips to Diana's hair, careful not to disturb her, but even before he left the room, she'd rolled over to his side, claiming the warmth he'd left behind, still fast asleep.

It was the smell of coffee and bacon sizzling on the skillet that lured her out of the bedroom a few hours later. Wrapped in a thin robe, Diana watched him move between the stove and the counter as he hummed something softly under his breath, his movements precise and effortless, almost graceful. The only thing that was making it look less like a well-rehearsed dance and more like, well, the opposite of it was his comical bedhead, her hands itching to card through his hair – to smooth it down or ruffle it even more Diana wasn't sure.

Steve glanced up from the skillet when she stepped into the kitchen, squinting in the morning sunlight as she pulled her robe tighter around her body and tied the belt – for his benefit, not hers. The first – and last – time she decided to forgo clothing in the kitchen, he had dropped a coffee pot on his foot, and, according to Steve, it was not funny at all, despite what Diana was saying.

The memory made his lips quirk. Not that any of that was his fault, he reminded himself, amused. Who wouldn't forget everything and anything looking at her?

"Hey," Diana smiled, her voice husky from sleep, and ran her hand through her tangled hair, pushing it back from her face. "What are you doing?"

"Breakfast," he announced, grinning. "Are you hungry? I mean, you should be, what with all the appetite we've worked up..."

She snorted and shook her head, looking rather pleased with herself, although the light mood didn't last.

"Look, about last night…" Diana started, leaning against the counter next to him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "I'm sorry."

Steve put the spatula down and turned to her. His palm cupped over her face, he dipped his head to kiss her on the forehead. "Don't. Don't say that. It wasn't not your fault, never is."

 _If anything, it's mine_.

"I kept you awake."

" _That_ I didn't mind at all," Steve promised, his thumb running over her cheekbone. "Let's eat."

"Steve…"

His throat closed up. "I dream of it, too. Of losing you."

She shook her head. "Never."

"See?" He offered her a weak, tired smile, his voice dropping. "It goes both ways."

He piled eggs and bacon on the plate and handed it to Diana before pouring two mugs of coffee for them and emptying the rest of the skillet on his own plate, grateful for the simple things that made even their lives feel normal now and then. Like food. Like catching her look at him with that small, secret smile that seemed to be carrying all the truths in the universe.

"Hey, can I… can I ask you something?" Steve started after a while, chasing the food around his plate without much appetite. It turned out that the familiar comfort of making it didn't spread on consuming it.

Diana scooped some eggs with her fork and nodded when he looked up, chewing thoughtfully.

Radiant in the early-morning sunlight, she was so beautiful it hurt to look. He wondered sometimes how much light one must contain within them to see all the death and pain and destruction that she had in her brief time in his world, and still look like she was the sun, her softness, her kindness no less affected by her experience, by the things that would break just about anyone else. They intensified, even, for there was nothing else that could save them all.

Steve cleared his throat, not trusting his voice not to betray him. "If you, um… hypothetically speaking, if you had to choose between doing the right thing, and doing something that makes you happy, which one would you go for?"

An eyebrow arched, she put down the fork and picked up her coffee, watching him over the rim for a long moment. "And doing what makes you happy wouldn't be the right thing?" She seemed intrigued, a smile playing on her face, her head tilted slightly to her shoulder.

"No," he poked his fork at a piece of bacon with unnecessary concentration, all because it allowed him to have an excuse to look away from her. "It's kind of the exact opposite of happiness. In fact, it could actually—be harmful to someone."

She picked her fork again, her shoulders rolling in a half-shrug.

"Then you need to do the right thing. It's simple, no?"

God, of course, it was simple. It was _Diana_ , for heaven's sake. Diana who decided to fight the god of war without thinking twice, all because there was no one else who could do it; who would risk her own life to save someone without expecting anything in return; who would leave her home because the world needed her more; who believed in the goodness of mankind despite everything she'd seen.

He had never known anyone with the heart as big as hers, with the soul so full of love and compassion. She went against gods and armies like it was nothing, all because the peace on the other side of those battles mattered more to her than her own life.

For her, this decision wouldn't be a struggle. It would be no brainer at all.

"Steve, what is it? Why are you asking this?" She prodded when he didn't say anything.

 _Because I need to know that you will understand._

He stood up and picked up his plate, his food barely touched, to carry it to the sink, still avoiding her gaze.

"It's, uh… nothing. Just a… a book I'm reading." Lame. He hated lying to her. "Something that got me thinking." He exhaled slowly. "It's easy… it's easy to imagine that you would step in front of a bullet or sacrifice yourself for someone else until you have to do it, and then it's—it's not that simple."

He had to tell her, he decided. And yet he knew he couldn't. Not because Diana wouldn't forgive him for keeping something like this from her for years, which Steve knew he would have no right to hold against her, but because he feared that she would. And he didn't deserve it. Not when he lied to her after he'd promised her that he never would. Not after she showed time and time again how much she trusted him with everything that she was, completely, unapologetically.

It was despicable, and he had never been more disgusted with himself.

The legs of her chair scraped against the floor when Diana stood up just as he turned on the water, noticing that his hands were shaking, his breath shallow. He heard the rustling of her robe as she approached him, and then her arms snaked around him from behind and she kissed him on the tender spot where his neck curved into his shoulder.

"You've done it already," she whispered into his skin. "Ran through the bullets. Sacrificed yourself."

"I think it feels different… every time you face something like this," he replied.

"Well, you did all the right things last night," she murmured, and he could hear a smile in her voice, her fingers skimmed playfully over his chest.

Steve turned off the water and turned around, hands framing her face, pushing into her hair, her eyes moving between his, and he wished for nothing more than a hundred years of mornings like this one.

Diana studied him for a long moment, taking in a shadow of stubble on his cheeks and his mussed hair, following the curve of his mouth and fastening on the deep blue of his eyes, stormy in the bright light of the warm morning. He looked tired, jaded in a way she hadn't seen him in a while, and she reached to smooth the lines in the corner of his eye, her palm curling over his cheek for a second before brushing through his hair.

There wasn't a part of his body she didn't know, but his mind was something else entirely, and right now something felt off. Something very fragile, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what was making it seem so.

"What is it, my love?" She asked with a soft smile, her fingers curling around the back of his neck.

She didn't have anyone closer than Steve, and yet there still were things outside her reach - always would be as this was how it worked, and the enormity of everything she would never truly understand about him scared her on a deep, inexplicable level. It wasn't idle curiosity that was fueling her interest though, but the desire to know how to chase away the worry sneaking behind his eyes the nature of which she couldn't grasp.

"I love you, you know that, right?" Steve murmured, tucking a strand of hair around her ear, her expression relaxing momentarily. Whatever it was that was troubling his mind receded to a dim shadow, and she felt the lightness inside her respond in kind. He propped Diana's chin on his knuckle, holding her gaze. "I want you to always know that."

xoox

And so he stalled, unable to tell her the truth because there was no excuse for keeping it from her for so long, and he couldn't walk away because the very idea was making him wish he'd died in that airplane for it would've hurt less.

Late at night, they would lie together in bed, their voices nothing but the softest of whisper as they spoke about nothing in particular, his hands tracing the lines of her face like he needed to memorize the way she felt for the rest of eternity, and in those moments, it was so easy to believe that it was over, that whatever had been plaguing her mind was really and truly gone. That maybe they had both imagined it altogether, and he wanted so fiercely for it to be true.

There were stretches of time – days, weeks, months even - when the demons would retreat and leave them be, and he would start to believe foolishly, desperately, that none of it ever happened at all, that the conversation with the Queen of Amazons was a dream that was meant to start fading any moment now until there was nothing left of it.

And then out of nowhere, it would all come back, and Diana would wake up terrified out of her mind, certain that they were real, unable to break free from the demons haunting her for days on end. It took Steve a few years to figure out that it was his inner turmoil that was at fault, that she was merely reacting to the storms raging inside him whenever his mind would _helpfully_ twist itself into something unrecognizable, triggered by a memory, a smell, a sound. And once that realization had dawned on him, once he knew that it was less about the physical proximity as much as about emotional closeness, he couldn't help but pull away from her. It hurt and confused her, and the questions in her eyes that Diana didn't know how to ask felt like he was stabbed repeatedly in his heart, and in those moments, it would feel like the two of them were living in their own hell, unable to break through to one another.

He was torn between the need for closeness that was giving him solace he so desperately wished for and the desire to shield her from the darkness the he was inadvertently dragging her into. Tried to pretend that Hippolyta's revelation wasn't haunting him, an ever-present reminder of his selfishness; the consuming bliss of being with her, around her, was often dimmed by how fragile and fleeting those moments were, always just out of his reach.

Steve wondered if Diana was feeling the same profound loneliness that filled him whenever he'd put space between them for fear of making everything worse; the same consuming helplessness that coursed through him on the nights the distance between them grew unbearable and he couldn't find a way to cross it.

There was no way out, and he felt helpless, and scared, and he hated himself for doing this to her when he could oh so easily make it stop, trying and failing to find what it was inside him that was triggering those things.

There was no other answer except the one that he already knew.

The thing was, he'd lived in this world without Diana long enough to know that he could do it, easily. If he walked away, right now, right this moment, the sun wouldn't die and the universe wouldn't implode. He knew that after some time he would even learn to breathe without feeling like his lungs were too small, squeezed by an invisible hand. In his 60-odd years on earth, he'd been through much worse than a heartbreak. Steve knew that he would survive losing her.

The only problem here was that without Diana, he couldn't imagine life worth living.

xoox

 _Veld, 1918_

 _"What else?" Diana asked, quite entertained._

 _In the fading light of the oil lamp that was mere minutes away from going out, her arm was curled over his chest, her chin resting on the back of her hand as she studied him waiting for the answer. Steve scrunched his face in mock-concentration, and she giggled._

 _"You think it's so easy," he accused her._

 _"I want to know," she said with a lazy smile, her fingers carding absently through his hair, tracing the lines of his face, skimming over the faint scruff on his cheeks._

 _There was lightness to him that was hard to see when Steve was either imprisoned or running through the rain of bullets, the frown between his brows smoothed out, the lines near the corners of his eyes deeper from the perpetual grin tugging at the corners of his lips, bringing up that twinkle in his eyes that she only glimpsed in passing before. She loved it, loved the way he looked at her, the way he was making her heart feel so full she feared it would leap out of her chest._

 _Steve tucked his arm under his head and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling, his lips puckered comically._

 _"Well, we've already covered breakfasts, and newspapers," he started slowly. "And more food, which actually doesn't make you feel like you've already died." His hand began to trace slow patters on Diana's back. Her smile grew wider at his statement. "I'm not joking," he added, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "That concoction that Chief made the other night was not food, I need you to remember that."_

 _"I will," she agreed. "So, people eat a lot. Noted."_

 _"It's one of our vices." Steve chuckled. "You're cold," he murmured when she shivered a little, pulling the covers over them, tucking Diana closer into his side._

 _"No." She dipped her head to brush a kiss to a spot right below his collarbone. "I'm many things, but cold is not one of them."_

 _Steve cleared his throat, struggling to keep his thoughts from scattering away – not a small feat when she was doing that. "Well, that's good news for me, I guess."_

 _He brushed her hair from her cheek. His thumb traced along her bottom lip, and Diana leaned into his touch, pressing a kiss to the palm of his hand, his eyes growing darker momentarily. It was so easy to get swept away by the pull of her until he didn't know who he even was anymore._

 _"Tell me more," Diana asked, relaxing into him._

 _Steve blinked and tried to find his breath again. "We have fairs. Um… carnivals." He twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. "A circus."_

 _"What is it?" She perked up with curiosity._

 _"Ah, it's… like a performance."_

 _"Like theater?" She offered._

 _"No, more… for fun, I guess." Steve racked his mind for more. "It's flashier. With… glitter. And animals."_

 _"Glitter and animals," Diana echoed, a little skeptical, a little amused. "Sounds interesting."_

 _"And… we travel," he continued. His hand curled around hers; he lifted it, kissed her fingers. "You'd like that. Paris… Paris is beautiful in the spring."_

 _"Where else?" Her voice dropped to a whisper._

 _"Anywhere. Everywhere." Steve paused, studying her for a long moment. And then the light went out, the last drops of oil burned up. In the darkness that descended upon them, everything felt different all of a sudden, his doubts resurfacing. He swallowed. "What's going to happen tomorrow?"_

 _Diana pulled her hand from his grasp and smoothed down his hair. Her palm slid down his cheek and landed on his chest, right where his heart was beating rapidly. She craned her neck and brushed her mouth to his – a bigger promise that any words could convey._

 _"I will defeat Ares. And then we will go to Paris."_

xoox

 _Paris, 1950_

And then all hell broke loose again.

And again.

And again.

Steve no longer had it in him to be surprised. The world was adamant to tear itself apart, it seemed, unable to stop. By then, he'd have seen enough to know that it would never stop for as long as they all lived.

On a sunny morning a few years ago, when the radio in their kitchen came to life with dreadful news, his mind slipped back to the time when he'd first met Diana and how he'd thought that by taking her to the front in Belgium was nothing but indulging her whimsy while he himself was half-curious and half-wary of the woman who wielded a sword like it was nothing. How simple the life was when the evil was the doing of a god, he thought. And how much more complicated it looked when nothing and no one was to blame for the horrible decisions but the people who were making them.

Diana walked over to the radio without looking at him and turned it off, allowing the silence to settle over them, the rumble of the fridge in the corner the only sound hanging between them.

She turned to Steve slowly, her face solemn.

"We don't have to do it," he said quietly from across the kitchen. " _You_ don't have to. You don't owe anything to us."

"It's not the fault of the innocent people that their leaders believe the wrong things," she shook her head and rubbed her forehead, her gaze shifting to the window behind which the sun was rising slowly over the buildings.

It didn't care, Steve thought absently. The sun would still rise even when they all fall to ashes, climbing over the horizon, day after day, and the magnitude of something this permanent was both comforting and deeply terrifying.

"You don't have to come with me," Diana said when she looked at him again.

"I know," he nodded.

Just like he knew that he would. Just like he knew he'd follow her to the gates of hell and back if he had to.

"As long as you'll have me," he'd told her once, a long time ago.

"Always," she'd responded simply.

Steve hadn't questioned it since.

He'd been drawn to her from the moment he saw her on the beach all those years ago, like the planets orbiting the sun were pulled to it. Gravitational force and light, all that she was, and he wondered if he was going to disintegrate without them to hold him together.

Another country, another city, another camp, the same death and destruction, the same loss that was palpable in the air.

"I'm sorry you have to see this," Steve said, the burlap of the tents flapping in front of them in the wind, a sea of khaki green among pale yellow hills, men and women in dusty uniforms darting from one to another as he surveyed the familiar and yet so different landscape. It was hard to remember anymore when his life wasn't about this – hard cots and dry food and hoping he would get to see the light of another day. "It probably looks like tearing each other apart is all there is to us."

Diana slipped her hand into his and squeezed his fingers, her gaze taking in the dreadful view before them. "I know it isn't."

There wasn't much anyone could do. No taking sides, either. Not for Diana when the people who didn't ask for any of this were dying for nothing.

Endless months of tents and dingy apartments, falling asleep and waking up to the sounds of machine guns and the news that Steve wanted to block out of his mind. Endless months of not knowing if they were going to wake up in the morning or if the or village they were at would get wiped off the face of the earth in the middle of the night. Endless months of trusting Diana to come back to him. Endless months of paralyzing fear that with every breath he took, he was chipping away from her strength somehow, putting her in danger by being, well, _him_ – human, fragile, so very mortal, breakable in every sense.

And in the light of that, it was hard to remember sometimes that they were helping people. Truly helping them, saving lives.

He would clean Diana's wounds or help her wash the smell of death off her body when she was too tired to move, and kiss her skin in reassurance, and stroke her hair at night, curled around her as if he could shield her from the world, and all the while he would pray that he wouldn't step on a mine and steal even more from her because while his life was nothing but a grain of sand, she actually mattered - to mankind, to the world.

"Thank you," Diana whispered one night when he was certain that she was already asleep.

"For what?" Steve asked, wrapping the blanket tighter around the two of them.

Her fingers skimmed over his cheek, a touch so light he almost thought he'd imagined it. "For you."

It was hard to tell if anything had changed since France, the question he'd asked Hippolyta before they left Themyscira about whether or not the effect of saving him was irreversible remained unanswered. Used to thinking that she was merely an Amazon, not a daughter of a god, Diana seemed to have noticed no difference in how fast she was healing. If she had, she never mentioned anything to him, and Steve didn't know how to bring it up. Sometimes, not knowing was eating him up on the inside; other times, he was glad to be in the dark.

The day it all came to an end, he felt like something enormous lifted off of him. Like he could breathe at last, his relief so enormous he couldn't believe it and the victory was palpable on their fingertips.

But that was before the rumors came about the US recruiting former scientists that made the war what it was, the ones responsible for thousands, millions of deaths by the weapons they'd designed and the experiments that were conducted on the prisoners of concentration camps, the horrors of which went beyond human perception. Those cruel and insane things he'd seen Isabel Maru do were like a child's play compared to the level that her successors managed to invent.

It was like a blow he never saw coming that knocked all wind out of him and made the ground slip from beneath him. The country he was so proud of, the country he was protecting decided to forgo any moral qualms and close their eyes on the nightmares that countless of people had been put through, all because an easy promise of safety gave them access to the most brilliant minds that cared nothing for innocent lives. He couldn't believe it, refused to accept it, and the disillusionment was so strong it felt like the axis of the world had shifted.

He tried to understand it, see it through the eyes of the people making those decisions – as progress and innovation, and having access to the minds that were decades ahead of their time - but all he could imagine was people being taken apart and put back together, the look of disgust and disbelief on Diana's face when those facts became known to her, the pain he'd seen and done his best to prevent. In his mind, this was siding with the murderers, with the people who cared for nothing, would stop at nothing, and it was making him sick. Everything he'd ever believed in, everything he'd fought for was an illusion, nothing but smoke and mirrors, and what was the point, then?

In the time that had passed since then, Steve tried to recall how he found out about this – did someone tell him? Did he overhear it in a conversation that was meant to remain private? – but his shock and shame and denial blocked it out, blurring his memory of the moment.

All of this made Steve think – cynically and unjustly perhaps – if any of their fights were worth it after all, if putting their lives on the line meant anything when in the end, the world was willing to close its eyes to unspeakable things for cheap reasons. If human lives measured up to nothing at all, why were they all even trying?

"Remember when you told me that mankind was meant to be good? That Zeus created us wise and compassionate and fair?" He asked Diana one night when it was hard to tell who was having whose nightmares, and the shadows lurking in the corners seemed to be hiding the monsters waiting to attack.

"Yes," she responded, her hand tucked under her cheek as she watched him stare up. "Why?"

"Was just wondering where it all went wrong," Steve breathed out.

And then it started again like he always knew it would. Another fight, another thing that needed to be fixed, more death, more blood, humankind tearing at the seams because there was little else they were capable of, or so it felt more often than not.

He couldn't do it, Steve thought with dismay. Couldn't spend god only knew how many years being terrified out of his mind and imagining Diana dying before his eyes, because of _him_ , and the mere concept of it filled him with so much dread and primal, uncontrollable fear he could barely stand it.

"Is this all there'll ever be?" Steve asked wearily and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the mother of all headaches start to build behind his eyes when the news of another tragedy settled in his head, the facts all sorted into their respective slots.

He could see it in her already, could feel the buzz of anticipation coursing through Diana, hear the gears of her mind turn, planning, thinking. Before he'd know it, she would reach for her armour, slipping out of her practical clothes and into a garment of a warrior, her sword sharp, her shield always close by, swift and efficient, ready to save the people from themselves.

And then it hit him, the realization so simple he couldn't believe it never occurred to him before. Emotional closeness, his vulnerability… He was her Achilles' heel, and she was his, and the only way for him to keep her safe was to walk away. That was something that Steve knew for a while now. The problem with that plan had always been his inability to leave because deep down, he knew that she wouldn't want him to, like he wouldn't have given a bloody damn had the tables been reversed. However, his own disillusionment was a powerful and dangerous thing churning inside him like something dark and venomous, and if he could get her to feel that way about him—

Steve swallowed as all pieces of the puzzle fell into place in his mind.

There was only one way to save her from him, and it was through disappointment and resentment, and he knew just the right buttons to push to make it happen.

Diana paused and turned to him, her brows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"There will be no end to wars, Diana. People will always find something to fight over, to… be mad about." He shook his head, his heartbeat fast and hollow. "Is this all you want your life to be?"

"And you want to give up? Do nothing?" She asked, incredulous. He didn't have it in him to even turn to her, disgusted with himself for feeling that way.

"Aren't you tired? Don't you want to…" Steve let out a slow breath, and suddenly those few feet between them felt like a bottomless void. "Don't you want to not carry all of this on your shoulders? It's not your job."

When he finally managed to meet her gaze, she was looking at him like she didn't know who he was. Like he was a stranger speaking the language she couldn't understand.

"Do you really expect me to do nothing?" She repeated. "After everything? After we've seen how much suffering people are put through? Innocent people who didn't ask for it, who are not to blame." Diana's frown deepened, disappointment and disbelief radiating off her in waves.

"Well, I didn't ask for it either."

She nearly recoiled from him. "How can you say that, Steve? How can you ask that of me?"

"Because I can't do it anymore," Steve retorted. He shook his head. "Because it's been too long and there has to be an end to this all."

 _Because you're not invincible. More than most but not entirely._

 _Because I can't keep thinking of a thousand ways you can die when you're doing the things I can't help you with. Because I can't._

 _Because I can't sit and imagine you never coming back._

 _Because I can't watch you wake up in the middle of the night screaming and knowing that I am to blame._

 _Because it kills me to think that I'm hurting you without being able to stop it_.

"Do you really want me to just walk away when I know that I can help?" She asked softly, watching him intensely like she wanted to see all the way inside him, straight through his bullshit.

Part of him feared she might.

 _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry_.

Steve pressed his lips together for a moment, his expression hard.

"Maybe we're not meant to save everyone," he muttered.

"Maybe _we_ are not," Diana agreed with a pointed accent on 'we', her arms folded over her chest. "But maybe I am."

He flinched, and her face fell, regret washing over it.

Steve nodded slowly. "Perhaps, you're right."

Her shoulders slumped. "Steve, don't… I didn't mean it like that." She exhaled slowly and rubbed her forehead, visibly conflicted. "If you don't want to come with me, don't. Can we talk about this when I'm back? If it's something that's really bothering you, let's discuss it later."

"And when would that be? And for how long?" He asked. "See, that's the thing with disasters – they never stop coming."

"What is it that you want me to do?" She asked with a hint of frustration, and his heart clenched.

He was looking at her, unwavering, hoping that his lungs wouldn't collapse, his very soul splintering under her gaze. He already missed her so bad that it caused him physical pain, and each word was like a nail in his coffin - about just as final. "Whatever you have to do. Don't let me hold you back."

Diana bristled momentarily. "Why are you twisting my words?"

 _Because I need to have an excuse to save you from everything that I am_.

"Because you're right," he said evenly. "I mean, how long could this fairy tale last?"

"What are you saying?" Her voice cracked – so slightly he'd almost missed it; anyone else would have, except Steve knew it too well– and she went still, watching him like she could no longer recognize him. Truth be told, he could barely recognize himself either.

She'd be better without him, and that realization was the best and the worst one that had ever occurred to him. It would be easier for both of them if she hated him, if she was disappointed in him enough to make ripping this band aid off in one swift move possible. As painless as it could be, considering. If Hippolyta was right, and Steve didn't have a reason not to trust her, he would be making Diana a favour of a lifetime by ending this. Here. Now.

He should have ended it a long time ago.

"Where do you think this was going?" He asked, gesturing at the two of them. "You and I." Steve dropped his gaze, unable to face her shocked expression, and ran his hand through his hair in helpless frustration before dropping his hand to hang at his side. "How do you think this was going to end?"

Diana pursed her lips together, so visibly hurt by his words that he wanted to take them back right there and then, and beg for her forgiveness, and promise her

"I didn't think it would."

"Well, maybe it should." He met her eyes again, willing his voice to remain steady. "Maybe it's better that way."

"Is this what you really want?" She inquired, and nodded slowly when Steve didn't respond. "Then maybe it is."

xoox

 _Gotham, 2017_

Bruce Wayne was not used to not getting what he wanted.

Most material goods could be easily bought if he so wished, and people – well, people tended to want to be associated with him. And women… women rarely ignored his interest. He didn't remember the last time he couldn't obtain an object of his desire, whatever it was.

But not her. Not Diana.

Thanks for bringing him back to me.

He'd spent months turning her words in his head this way and that. That photo must have meant the world to her if she was willing to risk everything to get it from Luthor. There were few people who dared to go against Lex, and Bruce knew them all. Most of them were dead. He could barely imagine anything to be worthy of going through this much trouble, leave alone a memento.

It must have been the man standing next to her, then.

 _Him_ , not _them_. Not the other three.

And it frustrated Bruce more than he was willing to let on. More than he was willing to admit even to himself. Not quite jealousy yet – she was never his to warrant that feeling, but envy of a dead man who had nothing, not even life, and who still had more to offer her than Bruce could ever imagine.

"Enjoying yourself?" Diana asked, appearing next to him.

Bruce had to make an effort not to stare at the silver dress that was hugging her body in all the right places. Her hair was up, gathered into a knot on the back of her head, exposing her neck and making him want to strum his fingers along it. He forced his gaze up to find her gaze.

She arched an eyebrow and took a sip of her champagne, watching him with mild amusement over the rim of her glass.

Truth be told, he was bored, so much so that had she not been here and had this not been her idea in the first place, he'd long snuck out and escaped to a far more comfortable solitude of his home where a smile plastered on his face wasn't a part of the dress code.

However, she rarely graced him with her presence these days, and appearing at this benefit was, technically, the right thing to do. And so he hung back, following her along the room with his gaze for lack of other options and trying not to overthink her offer. He was funding half of it, after all. Might as well show some interest.

"Immensely," Bruce replied, downing his scotch and putting the empty glass on the polished bar counter, a few ice cubes that didn't have a chance to melt clinking softly as he did so.

"I told you it would do you good," Diana smiled, a little entertained, a little condescending.

It irked and excited him that she knew him well enough to be right about something like this.

"You did," he agreed mildly.

She nodded, her eyebrow arched, and suddenly it was too much.

He wanted her too badly for too long. And maybe he had a few drinks too many – god help him, he needed them to make it this far into the evening – but the next thing Bruce knew was that his hand was on the small of Diana's back, turning her to him, his mouth finding hers.

Bruce Wayne was not used to not getting what he wanted. Nor was he used to considering the consequences of his actions.

xoox

In the 60-something years that had passed since that fateful afternoon in the sunlit apartment in Paris when he walked out the door after their conversation and never came back, Steve Trevor saw Diana Prince exactly twice.

The first time was some 15 years ago when life brought him back to the city of love. Thinking nothing of what might have become of her since then, he had an afternoon to spare before his flight to Madrid. It was a sunny but chilly day in April and after grabbing a sandwich and a cup of coffee from a street vendor, Steve found himself heading toward the Louvre, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket that was far too thin for this weather and his shoulders hunched against the wind coming from the river.

It was the first time he came back here, the streets still holding too many memories that he didn't want to dwell on for fear of tearing at the seams if he allowed himself to reminisce of the days long gone.

The pyramids were a new addition, something he hadn't expected to encounter. They fascinated him, the creativity of the idea and the way the light was filtering through numerous glass panes, breaking into infinite rainbows inside the spacious hallway below the entrance even despite their clash with the original architecture of the museum.

There was comfort to being here, to wandering the galleries that felt like a maze, only half-listening to the buzz of conversations in more languages than he could count. It didn't take much effort to tune them out completely, get lost among the strangers that didn't care that he existed.

Steve wasn't sure how long he'd been there before one of the curators hurried past him, a stack of papers in her hands, the heels of her practical shoes clacking on the parquet floor, as she called out, " _Madame Prince, attendez, s'il vous plaît!_ "

 _Please wait_ , Steve translated automatically, the name that fell from the woman's lips not registering with him until he heard the voice so deeply etched in his memory he would probably carry it inside him for several lifetimes respond a few moments later.

" _Oui, Dominiquie?_ " It made Steve stop in his tracks, his throat closed up. " _Puis-je vous aider?"_

Steve turned slowly around so as not to attract any attention to himself, not certain in that excruciatingly long moment if he wanted to be right or wrong. He'd made this mistake before, after all, hearing her voice only to find another person speaking. So many times, in fact, that he'd lost count of them.

However, before he could make a decision as to which scenario he would much rather face, it was too late.

It was her.

Standing some 50 feet away from him by the door marked as _Réservé au personnel_ was Diana. Stylish black pants, a high-neck blouse, black heels, her hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She was signing the papers that the woman who just ran past Steve offered her, her eyes scanning the pages before scribbling something at the bottom of each one, her mouth moving as she asked or clarified something but it was too soft for him to hear what she was saying. And he craved it, longed to let the sound of her voice wash over him again.

For a long moment, he simply stared at her like she was an illusion, merely an apparition, taking in her small smile and regal profile, the irony of finding her here, of all places, on this completely random day not lost on him.

Then he turned around and walked away – before she saw him. Before he changed his mind.

And the second time, Steve saw her at the benefit gala in Gotham, on a cold November night. Standing by the bar across the room from him, a champagne flute in her hand, she was a kissing a dark-haired man in a suit that probably cost more than Steve's life, and the five before it, his hand anchored possessively on the small of her bare back and her silver dress shimmering in the light of expensive chandeliers.

It felt like a sucker punch that left him breathless and completely paralyzed. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only stare.

Until he grew unbearable.

"Captain Trevor," Amanda Waller appeared before Steve like a jack from the box just as he reached the bloody door, and before he had a chance to flee this place, this city, this country, his heart quite possibly no longer beating and his insides coiled into a knot. How he ended up here, how he left the ballroom when his legs felt like they weighed a ton each he couldn't recall.

He'd completely forgotten about their meeting by now.

If she noticed his distress that Steve didn't bother to conceal because who the hell cared, she showed no sign of it. Meeting here was her idea. In public – smart move. Although, as she'd put it earlier, he needed to have a look at the 'best and brightest' of Gotham, for his own benefit too, whatever that was supposed to mean.

Steve was not so sure anymore.

Regardless, Waller gave him a pleased once-over and nodded, all business. "I'm glad you've made it here. Follow me, please. I believe we have something to discuss."

 **To be continued...**

* * *

 **A/N:** Okay, who saw that coming?

(I wrote this a month ago, long before JL came out, so... Just fyi.)

Feedback, comments, thoughts, yelling are much appreciated.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's notes:** You guys are so wonderful ❤ Thank you for sticking around

It's quite a lot of fun to finally get to the present-day events of this story. Now, Justice League…. I have quite conflicted feelings about that film, which I'm not going to go into. However, I'm quit glad that it fixed the issue of bringing Superman back to life for me. This part, and the next one, were written before the film came out and Clark was already in them, even though I wasn't sure how. Well, now we all do – hooray. That, and the character introductions were useful, I'm going to keep them. And Diana hitting Bruce for badmouthing Steve. Everything else – never happened.

This chapter takes place after the events of JL, but before they find that new manor in the end of the film, although we'll get there. Right now, all we have is Bruce's glass house.

Also for those of you who never saw Suicide Squad, or forgot what happened there: Amanda Waller gave Bruce the files on other metahumans, including Barry Allen and Arthur Curry. That particular scene is going to be referred to when they speak again.

Aside from that, you're good to go :) Have fun!

* * *

 _Gotham, 2017_

There were exactly two things in the world that Amanda Waller hated with a passion – asking for help and dealing with Bruce Wayne. In no particular order. Combined, they were her worst nightmare. It frustrated her to no end that there was nothing she could do to stop him, seeing as how his 'heroic' endeavours weren't technically illegal; nor could she control him in any way, which, at times, felt even worse. Amanda Waller didn't like not being in control.

In her 20-year long career in the US government, she had a 'privilege' of meeting the worst of the worst – something she wasn't particularly proud of, although it made her feel like she was having an upper hand in just about any situation nonetheless – but she had yet to encounter another individual who could be defined as a human equivalent of a headache as much as that man.

To say that she wasn't overly fond of dealing with Bruce Wayne, whatever the circumstances, would be a major understatement, all things considered. And yet here they were, all spread out over the conference room below her office like an impromptu party. The only thing missing was perhaps a picnic blanket and an assortment of snacks.

Bruce was the only one who was invited, but Waller should have known better. She wasn't particularly surprised that Diana Prince came along, seeing as how they seemed to be co-running their club for the special and the gifted, although Barry Allen and Alfred Pennyworth were certainly an unexpected appearance. She was not prepared for them, and being caught off-guard didn't sit well with her. That man was enough of a wild card even without trying to make her trip over her own feet with every step she took.

Amanda Waller did not like that at all.

"No," Bruce said the second she stopped speaking, and had they been in a different situation, she would have appreciated the fact that he even let her finish.

"We're on the same side, you understand that, right?" Waller reminded him flatly, and there was something pleasing about not showing him just how much he was getting under her skin, she thought as he pressed his lips together.

This man was impossible to reason with, in part because the idea of teaming up with anyone went against everything that he was (she was surprised beyond measure that he'd decided to expand his team rather than keep on leaping from rooftop to rooftop by himself), and in part because disagreeing with any opinion that differed from his own was in his nature more than anything else. Certainly more than relying on common sense, it seemed.

She didn't want it, either. None of this was something that Waller would have preferred to deal with under other circumstances. She and Bruce Wayne were alike that way – neither one of them was good at playing well with the others. On top of that, the man standing before her had a god complex and an affinity for breaking the rules – everything that was an honest-to-god nightmare in her line of work. If it was her personal choice, Bruce Wayne would have never stepped into her office in the first place; not to mention the merry party that he insisted on bringing along with him, either for moral support or to witness him deflect her jabs – she wasn't quite sure yet.

The only problem here was that they needed each other, and Gotham needed them both, and Amanda Waller knew that he knew it, too. And they both equally hated it, neither one of them used to giving in.

Bruce let out a short snort. "And you want to spy on us?"

"I believe the press is doing a damn fine job there already," Waller deadpanned, her eyes flickering toward a stack of newspapers on the cabinet, the headline of each of them featuring someone from his home-grown gang.

Superman's return alone was such a big deal it managed to have stolen every front page for weeks on end. Barry Allen made an appearance or two in the recent past, and while Diana Prince was less frequent a guest in their neck of the woods, she'd also made quite a name for herself. Arthur Curry and Victor Stone were not that much on display, either less involved or stealthier than the others, however even they didn't stay completely unnoticed. If Waller wanted to spy on them, she'd get a team to stalk every type of social media. Would be a no-brainer, really.

"What I want is information," she added.

Bruce laughed at that, and even Alfred chuckled softly, drawing attention to himself for the first time since he'd entered the room half an hour ago.

"Right," Bruce shook his head, and Waller pointedly avoided looking at Diana who was watching her impassively, waiting for her to open her cards. "Information. Why would I want to share anything?"

Waller leaned back in her chair, her hands clasped together before her. "Because I can share back. Believe me, it's something you might appreciate at some point. If memory serves me right, our partnership proved being rather useful in the past."

"It was a one-time deal," Bruce reminded her.

He had refused an offered seat, choosing to keep standing, and while to him it might have looked like having some advantage in this conversation, Waller couldn't help thinking of him as a petulant child who would rather remain inconvenienced out of spite.

"It doesn't have to be," she said simply.

Despite the present audience, she knew that essentially, this was between the two of them.

She also knew that she had him then. Maybe not completely but his resolve was crumbling before her eyes, and she loved every moment of it. She knew that he came here solely for the sake of rubbing how much they didn't need her in Waller's face, and however this meeting was going to end, this flicker of indecisiveness of his face was worthy of her time, that much she was certain of.

"So let me get this straight," Bruce started again, "you found someone else with… special abilities, and you want them to work with us so they could pass the inside information to you? Am I getting this right?"

"Not at all. He will be working _with_ you like Mr. Allen here," her gaze darted towards Barry. "And the information will be coming from you, Mr. Wayne. This is between you and me, and no one else." Still, she gave the other three a pointed look as if to say that they were not meant to be a part of this negotiation in the first place.

"What's the catch then?" Bruce inquired, not quite willing to swallow the bait yet.

"There is no catch. You need help. I am willing to provide the best person who can offer it."

"Why? His morals are too high for your bunch of petty criminals?"

"No one is perfect," Waller responded flatly and offered him a small shrug. "Sometimes they come with principles."

Not to mention that there was no _bunch_ anymore, just an array of people locked away for the sake of their own and everyone else's safety, she thought grimly.

"We don't need help," Diana shook her head, speaking for the first time.

Waller fixed her eyes on her, not quite certain if she meant it as that they didn't need help or that they didn't want it from _her_. Not that she cared. "Yes, you do, and you know it. Otherwise, none of you would've spent months looking for it. You're stronger than most but you're not invincible. None of you are. And certainly not the people you care about. Not all of them, at least." She paused for emphasis. "Therefore, you're hardly in a position to turn down any sort of assistance. You, of all people, should understand that, Ms. Prince."

"Me, _of all people_?" Diana echoed, an eyebrow raised. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Waller levered her with an even look. "I would assume you know more than most about what _can_ come next. Demons, aliens. Take your pick. Besides, you can't swing your sword and keep an eye on traffic updates at the same time."

"Why?" Bruce asked, unimpressed.

Waller turned to him. "Because saving lives and multi-tasking don't mesh."

"No. If this guy is so good, why would you want to… give him up?"

"Because I have no use for him. Because, as per our agreement, I'm not working with metahumans anymore. And because I'm nice like that." She paused, watching his jaw twitch a little. "And you could benefit greatly from his expertise, trust me."

"Trust you?" He echoed, and Barry had to cover his chuckle with a cough.

Waller's lips curved into a humorless smile that didn't touch her eyes. "We haven't always been on the same page, but have I ever given you a reason not to trust me, Mr. Wayne?"

"There's always the first time for everything," Bruce scoffed. "We don't need anyone," he repeated, his eyes darting toward Alfred. "I think we're good for now, as far as traffic updates are concerned."

Waller cocked her head. "And how willing are you to risk the life of the man who raised you after your parents died the next time the sky opens up and spits out something nasty? That, and how foolish are you to think that you can do it alone? This city is bigger than you think. And the world is even bigger than that." She picked a folder from the chair next to hers and put it on the desk, pushing it toward Bruce. "An ex-military, doesn't like following the orders but has an enviable moral compass. You'll probably have a thing or two in common. Unless you have other leads, of course. Or maybe someone else you would like to bring back from the dead."

Bruce's jaw clenched, and this time she knew that this was it. Everyone else did, too. He didn't move, his gaze only briefly landing on the offered dossier. The eyes of both Alfred and Barry were on him now, and Diana shifted from foot to foot, never looking away from Waller who continued to watch the man standing before her, knowing that she'd found the perfect way to corner him into a situation from which there was no way out.

Well, he could walk away, of course. But what a stupid thing that would be to do.

"And why would he want to be involved, that guy of yours?" He asked.

Waller shrugged. "Everyone needs a hobby. He doesn't have one at the moment."

Bruce gaped at her, and Diana Prince looked away, suddenly disinterested. "Are you seriously trying to sell me on the idea of putting our lives in the hands of someone who needs a _hobby_? You're kidding me right?"

"Isn't that how we all got here?" Barry scoffed.

Waller raised a curious eyebrow at him. "What was that, Mr. Allen?"

He buried his nose in his phone again. "Nothing. A cat meme."

She nodded and turned to Bruce again. "No, I'm asking you to consider employing someone who has experience in espionage, not just stocks market, fishing, and…" her eyes darted toward Diana, "antiques."

"And competitive dancing," Barry piped up.

Bruce shot him a warning look. Waller ignored his comment entirely. Alfred still hadn't uttered a word, and if she had to guess, he was trying to weigh the pros and cons of her offer in his mind, quite possibly both hurt by the implication of someone else being involved in what had always been his domain, and relieved, she could imagine.

"Didn't you just say that he wasn't a spy?" Diana inquired.

"I said he wasn't going to be spying _on you_ ," Waller corrected her.

"All of this because you want information from us?" Bruce asked again, eyeing her skeptically.

"I want us both to stop pretending that the other one doesn't exist. We're not helping anyone by doing that." He all but scoffed, but she continued, "We're not doing anyone any favours by staying on the opposite sides in this battle."

He rubbed his chin, his gaze heavy now that he couldn't simply walk out the door the way she was certain he was planning to from the start. In his mind, she was sure, this was all meant to be a show, but look how tables had turned.

They stared at one another for a long moment, and Waller thought that if he could incinerate her with his gaze, there'd be nothing but a pile of ashes left of her.

"Okay then," Bruce let out a frustrated sigh in the end, "I supposed we should meet him first. Does he have a phone?"

"I'm glad we're on the same page after all." Waller nodded curtly and pressed a button on the intercom. "He can come in," she said when her assistant on the other end responded, trying to ignore the satisfaction of seeing a shadow of surprise pass over Bruce Wayne's features. He probably assumed that they might need to track him down, their previous arrangement considered.

Oh, how much she loved defying expectations.

Not a few seconds later, the heavy door opened and a man in his late 30's walked in.

His glanced at Alfred and Barry without any particular interest, recognition sparkling alive in his gaze when it landed briefly on Waller. His eyes lingered for just a second longer than necessary on Bruce before fixing on Diana. He froze, all colour draining from his face.

Unperturbed, Waller stood up from her chair and turned to Bruce.

"Allow me to introduce Captain Steve Trevor."

xoox

She had to have known, Steve was thinking now. Amanda Waller had to have planned this from the start, and shockingly, this was the only thought that managed to anchor itself in his mind while the rest of them, half-formed and torn apart, were nothing but a tornado in his head. There were very few instances in his life that felt like a metaphorical sucker-punch, leaving him breathless and gasping for air, but seeing Diana stand before him now, 60-something years later and not aged a day was more than that. It made him feel momentarily like he'd fallen into some kind of black hole that turned his reality inside out.

The time stopped - there was no other way to explain a million and a half emotions what swept through him in under one second, nearly knocking Steve off balance when their eyes met. Impossible. She was like an apparition, almost unreal, her gaze shocked and disbelieving, neither of them daring to so much as blink for fear of having the other one disappear. This was the last thing Steve expected to ever have to deal with, the last place he'd ever imagined himself to end up in. All the pain, all the aching that had reduced over the years to a dull throbbing, everything he'd learned to ignore came rushing back in.

Thin jacket, practical black pants, her hair pulled into a ponytail – Diana was looking at him like he was a ghost, and Steve knew that his own expression mirrored hers. This room, the whole world fell back as his heart climbed up all the way to the Olympic jumping tower, thirty feet above the water, took a run, pushed away from the springboard, and leaped forward and down, plummeting into his stomach where it continued to flutter frantically, successfully pushing anything and everything else out of his mind.

His breath shortened, and he wondered absently if the rest of Waller's visitors could hear it, too, deciding that he didn't give a damn about it in the end. In that moment, he cared for nothing except taking her in, after all this time, so different and yet achingly familiar. Unchanged. _Here_. So very real it hurt to think about it.

Diana's lips parted as if she wanted to say something, ask something, but no words came out. Just silence, and the pounding of his heart, deafeningly loud.

In the years that had passed since Steve last saw her, he'd imagined this moment thousands of times, playing out in thousands of different ways. Couldn't stop thinking of some providence bringing them together again, knowing that he would never be able to walk away once more. And yet none of those scenarios ever made him feel like the ground was being kicked from underneath him. In his daydreams, Diana never looked at him the way she was looking at him now – with a mixture of doubt and denial. Like she wished that there was someone else standing in his place.

Steve swallowed and forced himself to tear his gaze away from her, fearful of keeling over if he didn't.

Beside her was a man who he recognized instantly – Bruce Wayne. There wasn't a rat in Gotham who didn't know him, although, admittedly, he wasn't quite as identifiable when his mouth was latched onto Diana's a few nights ago. He straightened his back when Steve walked in, squared his shoulders as if to seem taller than he was, and there was something possessive in the way that he nearly stepped in front of her – something that almost made Steve laugh out loud because if there was anyone among the present company who least required any protection, it was her. The proprietary gesture rubbed him the wrong way nonetheless.

Then a wave of white-hot anger washed over him, nearly making him see red.

Waller _knew._ She did this on purpose, and Steve couldn't believe she'd played him so effortlessly; couldn't believe how easily he walked into this trap, frustration rising inside him, threatening to spill over the rim.

He took a steadying breath, acutely aware of the five pairs of eyes glued to him, and slowly unclenched his hands that curled into fists on the will of their own. With effort, he dragged his gaze away from Bruce Wayne who was glaring daggers at him – be it for Steve's name or his face but there was an odd air of familiarity around them - and turned to Waller.

"No," was all he could say after a brief round of introductions that barely registered with him.

Diana looked at Waller too, arms crossed over her chest. Defiant.

"I'm not working with him," she said firmly.

Steve's jaw dropped. He gaped at her, not sure for a moment that this was really happening. " _You_ are not working with _me_?" And then he turned to Waller as well, "I'm not working with _her_."

"And I want to know how this movie ends," Barry muttered, and smacked Alfred on the shoulder with the back of his hand, "You got popcorn?"

"Is there a problem?" Waller asked, one eyebrow arched. One had to admire her ability not to give a shit. If it wasn't for the slight tension in her shoulders, Steve would have thought that she was bored by the entire affair.

"We don't need anyone else, we're good as we are," Diana responded, her voice uncompromising, and something akin smug satisfaction flashed over Bruce Wayne's features, making Steve's hackles stand on end.

"Really? Because a minute ago it was your idea to make proper introduction," Waller reminded her.

Diana's lips pursed into a stubborn line, and if Steve wasn't awfully busy trying to find a way out of this mess, he'd definitely take note of the thin ice that Waller was standing on, by the looks of it.

Steve shook his head. "You'll have to find someone else," he said impassively, managing to swallow that quiver that snuck its way into his voice.

Waller looked at him. "We had a deal, Captain, had we not?" She asked very calmly and very coldly.

They had, and he was starting to regret it, quite desperately so.

And suddenly, there was a sense of camaraderie in the room – as if everyone realized in that moment how much they despised the position they found themselves in. As if Waller actually had them all in her fist despite everyone trying to pretend that this was not the case at all. Maybe this was why Bruce Wayne looked so damn pissed, and why Diana hadn't stormed out of the room yet, taking the massive door with her like it was nothing, although he'd be a bloody bad spy if he hadn't spotted a flicker of panic in Waller's eyes, something that she probably wasn't aware of herself, and it got him wondering…

"I don't even know what you want from me," he said flatly after a few long moments, when the silence grew sufficiently uncomfortable and rather unbearable.

Waller's lips curved into the tiniest of smiles. "I'm glad you asked." He tried to ignore the finality in her tone. Like she knew that he was trapped, which, perhaps, he was. "Mr. Wayne and his friends here believe in helping people in desperate situations. If I'm not mistaken, this is something you have an impressive expertise in, don't you? They could benefit greatly from it, I'm sure."

Steve held her gaze, too tired all of a sudden to keep carrying on with this charade. Amanda Waller was hardly the scariest person he'd ever met. Frankly, Adolf Hitler still held the top spot. And just about any telemarketer who happened to stumble upon his number. And Steve was pretty damn sick of dancing to her tune.

"You have the wrong guy," he repeated.

"We're not interested in forcing any of this on anyone against their will," Diana added, quite pointedly keeping her eyes on Waller. On anyone but hi, for that matter. He wasn't sure if he was insulted or relieved by that, mostly for fear of combusting under her gaze if she'd so much as glanced his way again.

"There you go," Steve muttered under his breath.

"That's true, I practically volunteered," Barry piped in, his eyes darting between Steve, Diana, and Waller like he was watching an elaborate ping-pong match.

Before anyone could say anything else, an older man who Steve mistook for Waller's chauffeur, raised his hand like he was in a classroom, and Waller nodded, diligent teacher that she was.

"Perhaps, a probation?" Alfred Pennyworth, as Waller introduced him earlier, suggested earning a searing glare from Bruce Wayne which he promptly ignored, completely unfazed, making Steve like him instantly. Well, more than the rest of them, at that.

Diana's phone chimed just as Bruce opened his mouth to object, and she pulled it out of the back pocket of her jeans, manners be damned. This was too surreal for this to matter.

 _Steve? THE Steve?!_

A text from Lois.

Her pulse stuttered.

She glanced at Barry who openly was gawking at… was it really him?

 _Steve_.

The name resonated in the pit of her soul with a dull ache that she'd spent years – decades – learning to live with.

Her stomach had folded in on itself the second she saw him, her lungs crumpling inside her ribcage, rendering the simple act of breathing nearly impossible. Her chest felt hollow and caved-in, and she could barely look away from him, his black jacket and dark jeans, so different from the way she remembered him, but his eyes were the same – the impossible blue that reminded Diana of the waters around Themyscira, and the curve of his mouth was so familiar it was almost painful, his voice washing over her, the sound of it more important than the words that he was saying.

How was this possible?

She'd had this dream before, more times than she could count, except it always ended differently – his gaze was warm, not guarded, his embrace welcoming, and she couldn't stop kissing him as something all-consuming blossomed and unfolded inside her. Something that must have been happiness. In her dreams, Steve always came back to her and stayed. He would kiss her back, and she would wake up with tears in her eyes because the reality was heavy and unbearable.

This was nothing like it. Aside from the initial shock that she knew was impossible to feign, not to that degree, however good an actor one was, when they both seemed unable to stop staring at one another, Steve hadn't looked at her once, his gaze somehow sliding past Bruce and Amanda Waller, barely registering the presence of Barry and Alfred, and she was this close to waking out of here because she _couldn't_ …

Her phone chimed again.

 _Is it really him?_

Lois.

It had to be Barry, Diana thought absently. Except he didn't know Lois… but he knew Clark. She reminded herself to kill 'the fastest man alive' later.

The very air in the room was starting to feel like there was not enough oxygen, the electrified tension hanging between them almost palpable. Like the sparks were about to start flying.

And then Alfred's voice cut through it, his words feeling like the nails sealing her coffin shut.

A _probation_?

This was not an office manager job, for heaven's sake.

Diana opened her mouth to protest – because there was no way on earth this could work. There had to be a way to make this sound logical without bringing up her past because this was supposed to be a gesture of goodwill, and Waller had no power over them to force another person on them no matter the reasons, when Bruce spoke again.

"Does this have anything to do with ARGUS?" He asked, and Diana frowned.

Waller's lips quirked for a second. "We're working toward it," she responded vaguely.

For a long moment, they simply looked at one another, and then he turned to Alfred and Barry who, in turn, were waiting expectantly for further instructions before glancing at Diana, but there was nothing that she could offer him. Bruce knew who Steve was, he saw the photo, and even though they'd never discussed it, although not for his lack of trying, she knew for a fact that he'd done his homework, and the striking resemblance plus the same name… He wasn't stupid.

And all the while, Steve simply stood there, motionless as a statue. So still she didn't think he was even breathing, his eyes on Agent Waller, his brows furrowed.

In that moment, she wanted so bad to climb into his head and see what he was thinking. If only because it would probably stop the flow of her own thoughts that felt like a tidal wave that threatened to pull her to the bottom of the ocean.

She prayed for him to walk away, and begged all gods to let him stay, uncertain as to _why_ when he clearly didn't want to have anything to do with them.

"That, and I can share, too," Waller added, seeing Bruce's hesitation. His eyes narrowed slightly. "A beneficial agreement all over."

"This is not a good idea," Steve said, breaking the silence just as Bruce spoke:

"It's a deal then."

They looked at each other, and Diana could feel Alfred roll his eyes.

This was not going to end well.

"You can't just agree to that," she objected, making the men turn to her. "It must be a team decision."

"Oh, democracy!" Barry perked up. "Who is for bringing this guy to our club?" He jerked his thumb toward Steve and raised his hand.

After a moment of hesitation, Alfred did the same. Bruce huffed through his nose in disgust but nodded, too.

Diana turned away, her hands flexing on her elbows in what she hoped resembled a confrontational stance rather than an attempt not to fall apart, as if holding herself in one piece required a physical effort on her part.

"Well, in that case-" Waller started.

"Wait, it has to be all-inclusive," Barry interjected, his eyes glued to the screen of his phone as his fingers flew over it with inhuman speed, typing away with abandon. A few seconds later, it beeped. Barry grinned. "Vic doesn't care, so that's a yes." He glanced up at no one in particular, his gaze merely swiping over the room. "And Arthur asks if we can have KFC for dinner." He scrunched his nose. "D'you guys know if there's a joint somewhere nearby?"

"Are we done here?" Waller sighed with exasperation she didn't try to conceal.

"Apologies," Barry muttered.

"Well, that's two against five," Steve spoke when they fell silent.

He squared his shoulders against Waller's glare, unwavering.

"No, no, Arthur is in," Barry explained quickly. "He's just hungry."

"I didn't mean… whoever Arthur is," Steve shook his head, feeling all five pairs of eyes on him, seemingly trying to burn a hole right through him.

Barry scrunched his face, confused. "Then who else is against?"

"Me," Steve said, peering at Waller without much pleasure. "Can we have a word?"

She gestured to him to carry on.

"In private," Steve added, as if it wasn't obvious enough, his voice brimming with impatience. Why she needed this show was beyond his comprehension, but he was sick of it.

"I think we've already discussed everything there was to discuss," she countered.

"In this case, I'm out."

"In this case, our agreement is off," Waller shrugged. "You know where the door is, Captain Trevor."

Steve gritted his teeth but didn't move, drowning in helpless fury.

"I think that's a yes, too," Barry nudged Alfred with his elbow after a few moments, and then looked up, "Sorry, Di."

"Do whatever you want," Diana muttered before turning on her heel and walking out of the conference room without so much as a goodbye, leaving them all in stunned silence.

xoox

If someone asked Steve to explain how exactly he ended up in this mess, he wasn't sure he'd be able to do it, no matter how hard he tried to trace it back to the damned day when he'd made a fatal mistake of picking up the call from a blocked number.

Amanda Waller knew how to convince people to do as she said, he had to give her that. A useful trait in her line of work. It wasn't her methods, however, that had stirred unease in Steve but the fact that she knew things about him. Things that no one else was meant to know anymore, and the conversation left him equally curious and perturbed, if only because his past was supposed to be long buried by then.

Curious enough to get him to come to this godforsaken city for a face-to-face talk.

She made an offer to him – to erase all information about him that still existed in the world in exchange for a _favour_ , as she'd phrased it. He didn't like it, but he'd come this far and it felt foolish to back away now.

Had Steve known what that deal was about, that he'd be nothing but a pawn in her elaborate game for power with Bruce Wayne, he'd burn his phone, change his name again, and disappear somewhere where no one would know to look for him until Amanda Waller stopped being an issue. The funny thing about not dying – _yet_ – was that he became rather patient when it came to waiting for the others to leave this world, should the need arise. He was intrigued, though, and desperate to finally be in full control of his life.

To say that the details of this arrangement caught him by surprise would be an understatement of the century, and Steve had been alive long enough to be a good judge of that.

What it was that Amanda Waller and the rest of – what did she call them? Justice League? - were getting out of it, he wasn't sure, and quite frankly, didn't really care. It was no brainer to put two and two together, though – a week around here gave him a good idea of what Bruce Wayne was when he wasn't wearing tailored suits and signing multi-million deals, which explained his alliance with Diana. However, joining their little club was not Steve's idea of fun. To be completely honest, he could think of a thousand other things he'd rather do with his time, as far away from this place as possible.

What he wanted more than anything was for this to be over.

And yet here he was, in the back of an expensive car, colourfully cursing Amanda Waller in his mind. He needed her, and she knew it, and Steve resented her for it, and himself for giving in.

His phone pinged softly with a new message, and he knew instantly what it was – the files on everyone in the League, as Waller promised before Steve was whisked away by the overly-enthusiastic Barry Allen. Had he known from the beginning where this all would end, he's start running in a different direction immediately, Waller's offer be damned. After all, the concerns of the government had long stopped being of interest to him. He could still do it, Steve told himself. It would complicate some things again, but he could live with that. Surely, between that, and having to work side by side with Diana and her new… what were they called, he wondered. Romantic partners? _Lovers_?

The thought was nauseating, so much so that he almost asked Alfred to stop the car so that he wouldn't have to throw up on this expensive upholstery. Bruce Wayne wouldn't appreciate that. It could also work as a great exit strategy, Steve thought grimly. Drop dead on the side of the road somewhere to avoid moving any further.

"You okay, man?" Barry asked him. "You look kinda pale."

Sitting in the passenger seat, he had spent a chunk of their ride either texting or chatting a mile a minute, barely giving Alfred a chance to hum in response as the tune that Steve couldn't recognize was spilling from the speakers. Come to think of it, he couldn't quite remember how he ended up here in the first place. By the time Waller handed him over to the League, Diana was long gone, and Bruce Wayne disappeared shortly afterwards (and Steve was working hard on trying not to imagine her waiting for him in the garage or something).

But now Barry was hanging between the front seats, looking quizzically at him, his eyebrows raised expectantly, waiting for some reaction.

"Yeah…" Steve cleared his throat and straightened up in the slippery leathery seat, somewhat aware of the fact that it wasn't an answer but unable to come up with anything else. "Barry, right?"

The kid grinned. "Sure thing, and this is Alfred," he patted the older man on the shoulder, not without affection. "Bruce's babysitter."

"Mr. Allen…" Alfred started with a warning in his voice.

"Sorry. _Butler_." With that, Barry turned to Alfred. "I didn't know anyone still used that word." And added, "Anyone not living in the 17th century, that is."

"Would you like me to stop the car so you could walk the rest of the way?" Alfred asked flatly.

Steve glanced out the window behind which the outskirts of Gotham were nothing but a sea of grey, blurring before his eyes as the rain fell on them, angry and fierce. They did stop for food, too; the bag now sitting on the seat next to him was filling the car with the smell of French fries and chicken – something Steve could definitely do without, if he was honest with himself.

"Where are we going, exactly?" He asked, cutting into the banter happening in the front.

"Batca-" Barry started and cut off when Alfred shot him a _look_. "Bruce's," he corrected himself.

Right. The briefing, Steve recalled. Proper introductions. He just thought it would take place in Wayne's office or something of that kind. Not his house.

"So, what's the story?" Barry prodded again, and Steve got a distinct suspicion that the guy was about to get strangled with the seatbelt, sitting the way he was.

"What story?"

"With you and Diana?"

The mention of her made everything inside Steve coil into a knot, the memories giving leaving him with a vertigo strong enough to make him feel like the whole world was spiraling away from him.

 _Diana…_

This was going to be interesting.

"Why would you think there is one?" He asked with pointed nonchalance, mindful of keeping his voice as even as possible.

"Because you should've seen the look on your faces," Barry snorted.

Alfred caught his gaze in the rear-view mirror, half-curious and half-amused, and if a little bewildered, too. "Because Miss Prince is the reasonable one. It is usually Master Wayne who indulges in storming out and slamming the doors," he explained with a small smirk.

Ignoring Barry's unabashed anticipation for details, Steve shook his head and turned away, choosing to study the unimpressive landscape outside.

"There's no story," he muttered, not really caring if they heard him.

Not anymore.

xoox

 _Can't be, can't be, can't be…_

Diana twisted the steering wheel, her car swerving sharply and earning a handful of angry honks that faded as another vehicle wheezed past her, disappearing in the late-afternoon traffic. She hit the brakes, bringing the silver Volvo to an abrupt stop at the curb somewhere in Chinatown, spooking a flock of pigeons pecking at something near the newspaper stand on the sidewalk, not knowing how she ended up here and not certain where she was going in the first place.

 _Away_.

Away from that windowless room.

From Amanda Waller with her cold, measured voice that sounded like she was incapable of any human emotion.

From Steve.

Diana's hands were shaking when she peeled them off the steering wheel, her heartbeat rapid and frantic, the sense of ever-present composure that she'd mastered long before she even came to this world nowhere to be found.

Outside, a steady stream of passers-by was flowing past her car – well, Bruce's car, the one she'd borrowed this morning because she had somewhere else to be before he called her, asking her to join him for the meeting with Waller. They were giving her funny looks, undoubtedly curious about the smell of burnt rubber and skid-marks left by expensive tires on cracked and patched asphalt.

And inside her, a storm the likes of which she couldn't remember raged with such a force and ferocity that she could barely breathe.

Diana squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push the image of Steve out of her mind - his confusion and shock, disbelief flickering across his features, his palpable denial – but it only made it worse. The blue of his eyes that haunted her for over half a century was all she could see.

It had been so long that she almost forgot how much it hurt to think of him, like something was slicing her open from the inside. It took her years to learn to breathe without him, for her stomach to stop dropping whenever she'd see the same haircut or an army jacket on someone else, for her heart to stop fluttering in hope and anticipation. Until it drained her. Until she was no longer reaching for his side of the bed in the night or waiting to see his face upon waking up in the morning. Until she found it in her to move on and start healing as best she could, and the pain had finally ebbed.

And then Lex Luthor and the photo re-emerged, knocking the ground from beneath her feet. She'd spent decades looking for it, unsettled by the idea of someone else being in possession of something this personal to her. She thought it would bring her solace.

Yet, when it finally happened, when her efforts had finally paid off, Diana was once again faced with the simple truth – pretending that her past was dead and buried was one thing, but it didn't change the fact that there were things in everyone's life that couldn't be forgotten or overcome. Steve Trevor was that for her, and not several decades and half a dozen lovers could erase what they used to have.

Today proved that, if nothing else.

And if she were honest with herself, she wouldn't want to erase it either, the memories of their time together bittersweet, but cherished deeply nonetheless. However, what she wanted to do now was to go back to that moment when her phone started to ring this morning, Bruce's caller ID flashing on the screen, and ignore it, let it go to voicemail and then erase it without listening to it even though she knew she'd never do that. Not when the world was teetering on a brink of falling into the void more often than not, her armour and sword always within arm's reach.

Wherever Waller found Steve and whatever her game was was another story, and probably something she'd have to think about at some point. However, for now, she was fighting the urge to catch the first flight to Paris and go back to her life, to the semblance of what passed for normalcy these days.

Diana sighed when her phone came to life once more. Lois again, she thought, allowing it to keep ringing. Or Barry. Or maybe even Bruce – she was half-heartedly avoiding him since the gala night, not knowing how drunk he'd been then and not certain if she wanted to find out. Either way, it could wait for a little while longer. She also made a mental note to get Clark to find a hobby instead of mulling over the gossip. And Barry was in so much trouble for starting it.

She thought of Steve's watch, tucked away in a nightstand drawer in her room in Bruce's house, the very same one that his father gave to him over a century ago and that he somehow left behind in his hurry when he left her.

Still ticking.

xoox

"Who's that?"

A man with a wild mane of hair and the eyes so pale that Steve could have sworn they were translucent yanked the front door open before Alfred had a chance to so much as find the key, a loose shirt hanging from his massive frame that filled the whole doorway. He gave Steve a blunt once-over, his eyebrows arched quizzically.

"Fresh meat." Barry squeezed between Steve and Alfred and pushed the KFC bag into the giant's chest. "Here's your food, Arthur."

"Finally," the man muttered, grabbing it and turning to follow Barry inside, seemingly no longer interested in Steve now that he attention was focused elsewhere and not at all bothered by the appearance of a stranger on his doorstep.

Bruce Wayne sure kept one colourful company around.

"Sorry, they didn't have fish fingers," Barry added, earning a heartfelt chuckle in response, their voices fading as they walked away. An inside joke, by the sound of it.

"'Course they didn't, you genius. That's the whole point."

Steve didn't hear anything after that.

That was the mysterious Arthur then, he thought as Alfred gestured for him to come in and he stepped into the wide hallway, and when the door closed behind them, it was like it cut the four of them from the rest of the world, the sound of the lock clicking into place oddly final.

There was no briefing, per se.

Instead, Steve spend most of the afternoon eating cold French fries and reading their files – as much as Waller could acquire, and he wondered what exactly was missing as there always was _something_ – on a borrowed laptop while trying, with little success, to wrap his mind around certain facts. Like maybe that the chatty kid he had shared the car with not a few hours ago could run faster than the time itself. Or that the sullen man who he'd met earlier, and who was currently watching TV in the empty living room was, well, a _cyborg_. A result of an experiment gone wrong, and Steve felt chill in the pit of his stomach at the thought of the people who went through that, and worse, in the times of the war.

It was interesting how some things never changed, it seemed.

The time was supposed to dull his memories, make them fade around the edges, but some of them, he figured, were impossible to forget. That, and maybe they were not meant to be forgotten.

By the time Steve reached Arthur Curry's file, it was dark and his head was on the verge of exploding. He purposely didn't touch Diana's info, and only briefly skimmed over Bruce Wayne's credentials that listed primarily the mundane milestones – the date of death of his parents, the years when he graduated from school, then university, then another one, and such.

At least the man couldn't set things on fire with his brain or teleport or do something else super-human. It appeared that being able to fund this vigilante business was his main shtick, and for some reason, it made Steve feel better about this whole situation. Not because he necessarily wanted Bruce Wayne to be lesser than most (even thought there was that, too, he was not going to lie to himself) but because he found the idea of not being the only one without any inhuman skills around here rather comforting. Well, there was Alfred too, but he wasn't exactly expected to jump from skyscraper to skyscraper, apparently.

Which led Steve once again to the question of his involvement with any of this. They had nothing to gain from him, nothing they couldn't get from someone else. Perhaps someone who _wanted_ to be here.

When he brought that issue up with Waller the first time they met, the first time he had asked her about the nature of her request, her response was vague at best, something about his skills and experience. It made little sense then, and even less now. If she thought that his past connection to Diana was going to give him some kind of upper hand – well, he had some seriously bad news for her.

He refused to think of how this all fit into Diana's life. If she was happy – well, he was happy, too. After all, her happiness was the whole point of letting her have the life she wanted and deserved. He was hardy in a position to have an opinion, let alone to express it, anymore.

Earlier, Alfred allowed him to set his small camp in the study and even supplied him with a teapot and bottled water, and while Steve appreciated the space, when the grey day turned into a gloomy evening, he couldn't help but feel trapped in this dark room with its paneled walls and heavy drapes on the floor-to-ceiling windows brushing the floor. The rain had stopped, or at least reduced to a soundless drizzle, and the clouds were hanging low and ominous over the lake stretching before him on the other side of thick glass as the emotional fatigue had finally caught up with him.

Steve closed the laptop and heaved a weary sigh. His body ached from not moving for too long and his eyes felt raw from staring at the screen. He squeezed them shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to push away the mother of all headaches that started to build in his skull, the whole day feeling so surreal he was half-certain he was going to wake up any moment now and leave the madness of the past several hours behind.

It was time to get out of here.

"Captain Trevor?"

The voice made him snap his head up in alarm only to find Alfred standing in the doorway, watching him expectantly, and Steve wondered how long was lost in his mind.

"Oh, hey." He ran a hand over his hair and uncurled from the chair, barely resisting the urge to stretch and get the kinks out of his stiff body. "I, um… I think I'm about done."

For today, at least.

Alfred nodded. "Would you like more tea? Maybe something to eat?"

 _A drink_ , Steve thought, but swallowed that response. _Stiff one. And a sedative_.

He picked his phone from the desk and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans, shaking his head. "Thank you, but I think I better get going back to…" he trailed off, the thought of a dingy hotel where he was staying during this past week, with its tiny room and never-ending buzz of voices from other suites and the narrow street that morphed into white noise after the first two nights simultaneously dreadful and, well, rather exciting, actually. Never did he think he'd feel that way about that hole of a place, but idea of getting away from this house, these people, _Diana_ , was so overwhelming he nearly ran out the door, fearing that he would suffocate in these glass walls. He cleared his throat. "Any chance I could get a cab here?"

Alfred blinked, confused. "A cab? Haven't Agent Waller told you about the arrangement?"

An arrangement…

Steve's inner alarms went off, resonating in the pit of his stomach. "What kind of arrangement?" He asked warily, his mind vividly supplying him with a mental image of a stone cell in the basement – old habits die hard.

Alfred glanced over his shoulder to where someone laughed loudly, breaking the ever-present stillness of this place, and then turned to Steve again. "Agent Waller and Master Wane agreed that it would be better if you stayed here. So you could get to know everyone, you see. And perhaps for your convenience as well. I believe the hotels of Gotham leave a lot to be desired, even the best of them." He paused to let the information sink in as Steve stared at him. "Your belongings have already been delivered. I'd be happy to show you to your room whenever you're ready."

Steve heard the words, recognized them, but the combination of them made no sense to him whatsoever. He gaped at Alfred as if the other man had suddenly grown a second head and was now speaking a language he couldn't understand.

And the only coherent thought running through his head was, _You have got to be fucking kidding me._

xoox

 _London, 1919_

 _"What about birthdays?" Steve asked, his hand trailing lazy patterns on Diana's bare back, the tenderness of his touch making her heart ache._

 _Sprawled across the bed on her stomach, she allowed her eyes to drift shut, marvelling in the sensation of his closeness and the warmth of his body stretched out next to her, blissful and sated. Somewhere across town, there was a table at the restaurant that he booked earlier this week that they never made it to, distracted by each and somehow managing to turn 'dressing up' into 'undressing', their clothes now strewn across the floor of the small bedroom bathed in moonlight streaming through the window that was taking up almost the whole width of the wall._

 _They would get hungry soon, Diana thought absently, however the realization was short-lived. This was new still, and wonderful in every way, the closeness, the beauty of being given a second chance. The war was behind them at last, even though its shadow still hovered nearby, and Steve had healed, but she knew better than to take this blessing for granted. Every day, Diana gave thanks to the gods for bringing him back to her, for this consuming, impossible happiness that made her heart feel so full she feared it might burst in her chest._

 _Her lips curved into a lazy smile, "What about them?"_

 _Steve propped up on his elbow and brushed her hair away from her neck. His mouth trailed slowly over her skin, and she had to remind herself to breathe. "Well… when is yours?"_

 _Diana hesitated. "Our calendar is different…" she murmured, and added after making a mental calculation, "That will be April 7 for you."_

 _"April 7," he echoed. "I'll remember that."_

 _"Birthdays were acknowledged, but seldom celebrated," she explained. "Being born wasn't considered a personal achievement."_

 _"I beg to differ," Steve whispered, planting another kiss to her shoulder. She could feel his breath on her skin; his lips brushed to the nape of her neck, the pleasant warmth spreading over her body at his touch. "I might have to show you how we do things here."_

 _Diana giggled. "Haven't you already?"_

 _The things that people did when there were no wars to fight proved being worthy of every battle she could ever imagine. Having this, with him, was worth fighting them all, a thousand times over._

 _He laughed softly, the sound of it reverberating through her, and Diana rolled on her side to face him, her smile growing wider at the sight of his rumpled hair and his crooked grin, his eyes crinkling as he beamed down at her, comically proud of himself, although not without reason. She knew what it was like to be loved, the concept of physical intimacy not new to her. But it was never like this, never with someone who was willing to give all of them to her without asking for anything in return. Which only made her want to give all of her back._

 _No wonder the parts of her body she didn't even know existed were aching quite pleasantly now._

 _"Did you ever want to leave?" Steve asked after a few long moments, watching her in the dark. His face turned serious, a frown lodging itself between his brows. "Your home, I mean."_

 _"I had to," Diana reminded him as she tucked her hand under her cheek, studying his features, the way his face was lined with shadows._

 _"Yes, I know, but… did you ever want to?" He pressed, smoothing down her hair._

 _Did she?_

 _This was not something she pondered often, if ever, the world beyond Themyscira as alien to her as she was to it. It wasn't that she never wanted to leave but that she never needed to._

 _"I was raised to believe that the island was where I belonged," she responded. "Why did you ask?"_

 _Steve pressed his lips together and let out a small sigh, "I feel responsible, I guess… for making you do it."_

 _Her features softened. "You didn't. It was my decision to make, not yours, Steve."_

 _"Yeah, I know. I know, but…"_

 _She pushed up on her elbow until his eyes were all she could see, striking blue even in near complete darkness, and never failing to take her breath away. Her palm curled over his jaw and she brushed her lips to his, a feather-light touch that still left both of them short of breath. "There's nowhere I'd rather be," she promised, kissing the corner of his mouth. The truest words ever spoken._

 _"You know, this is the fourth dinner reservation that we let go to waste," he murmured with a small chuckle as Diana bumped her nose against his playfully, the tension leaving him, chased away by her reassurance._

 _"We were otherwise engaged, no?" She noted, grinning, her head tilted to her shoulder, and he laughed, the sound lighting her up from the inside._

 _"This is also something that usually goes differently," Steve muttered, shaking his head not without amusement._

 _"Differently how?" She asked, her hand playing absently with his hair._

 _He considered her question, eyebrows furrowed contemplatively._

 _"Well, usually you meet a girl and take her out for a meal, and maybe a dance. Then you meet her parents, and get married and…" He trailed off, his fingers drifting along her side and toward her hip. She cocked an eyebrow at him. "As a rule, you don't take a girl to the war." He smirked. "With us… I met your family first, and then I did take you to the war, which is the worst date idea ever, if you ask me." Diana smiled. It felt odd to speak of it with lightness, and his voice caught ever so slightly, but they would get there, she thought. Put the war behind them for good. "And then we danced," he continued. "And then we proved Clio wrong…"_

 _"That we did," she agreed, her gaze holding his and making Steve lose the train of his thought._

 _He cleared his throat. "The dinners, however, keep remaining rather elusive. Why is that, I wonder?"_

 _Diana hummed and leaned back to lay on the pillow. "Is there anything else we're doing wrong?" She murmured, tugging him to her._

 _"Mm-hm, I can think of a few things." Steve leaned to kiss her neck, shifting his weight over her. "How about I show you?"_

xoox

 _Gotham, 2017_

"Why did you do it?" Diana asked, arms folded over her chest and eyes shooting daggers at Bruce who either wasn't in the slightest perplexed by that, or was doing a damn fine job at making it seem so.

Or maybe it was the dim light of the reading lamp sitting on the desk in the study that kept their faces half-obscured, smoothing out the sharp edges of the feelings that neither wanted the other one to see. In the living room, or the hallway maybe, Barry and Vic were arguing softly over something or other, and she could hear outbursts of Arthur's laughter. There was comfort in those sounds, comfort in knowing that not everything in their lives was about the battles. And Bruce knew it too, his half-hearted complaints about the noise in the house masked the relief of not being on his own anymore.

Diana liked to remind him now and then that all of this was his idea, earning a scowl in response. He never denied it, though.

Her phone was burning with unanswered calls and ignored voicemails that she knew she wouldn't be able to put off dealing with for much longer. And she couldn't wait to retreat to her own room, shut the door and try to tune out every single thought that was starting to drive her mad. For years, she wondered what it would be like to have Steve back, and now he was but she had no idea how to process it.

She needed time.

Yet, this conversation was the matter of the utmost priority, something that wouldn't settled inside her until she _knew_.

Bruce shrugged and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pants, the face of his watch catching the light of the lamp and winking at her.

"Thought it would make you happy," he replied, cutting straight to the chase. She liked that about him, that there were no games – most of the time. That there was no need for unnecessary pretences. Again, most of the time.

He caught her gaze and held it, open and unapologetic.

As far as she could remember, he'd never made a secret out of being attracted to her and Diana had never made a secret out of not reciprocating the feeling, but ever since the gala, there was a new kind of wall between them, the unsaid words churning inside them, ready to spill over the rim and drown them both.

They were good partners in a battle, fighting for the right cause. She respected him as a warrior and a friend, and she didn't want to lose that, the understanding and kinship the likes of which she hadn't experienced for a very long time. But this was all she could give him, and to Bruce, she knew, it wasn't enough.

Soon, they would need to talk, before those words torn them apart.

Now, she also wished they had sorted it out before her past knocked them both off balance, although not surprised that the life wasn't as considerate as Diana wanted it to be.

"And why would it make me happy?" She asked, remembering the shakiness that filled her in Waller's office, as if Steve's presence was charging the air around them, making electric current jolt along her skin, the fine hairs on her arms standing on end.

Bruce's lips curved humorlessly. "Because you all but turned heaven and hell upside down looking for the photo," he responded, probably expecting her to deny it, to argue. She didn't. "Thought that having the _original_ would be preferable," he added, stressing the 'original'. "Besides, Waller was right, you know it."

"When you said you wanted to find the others like me, you were talking about people with… abilities," she reminded him, cross at herself more than at him for feeling this frustrated.

"Last time I checked, Agent Waller was very diligent with her homework," he pointed out. "Ergo, I'm going to assume that he has something to him. Until proven otherwise, that is."

Diana shook her head. "He does not."

"And you know that how?" A pause. "It's be a while, after all."

"If she thinks that he does, she's mistaken," she insisted.

"This is what we're going to find out." He fell silent for a long moment, his gaze hard, unkind even. "I thought you'd jump at the opportunity to have your boyfriend on the team." No, not unkind. Hurt. "With all the fuss around breaking into Lex's personal files, you never mentioned anything about the trouble in paradise. Or that Steve Trevor was alive, for that matter."

She pursed her lips together, bristled momentarily by his attitude. "Is this some kind of a game to you, Bruce? A joke?"

He stepped toward her, forcing her to look up, what with less than a foot of space between them.

"I don't know. Is it?"

In another lifetime, Diana thought. In a different version of reality, perhaps… He was not a bad man. The only problem here was that he wasn't—

She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and turned, taking an involuntary step back from Bruce even though the space between them was sufficient enough to not be considered intimate.

"Steve."

He was standing in the doorway, seemingly as surprised to find someone else here as they were to have been walked in on in the middle of the conversation.

For a long moment, the three of them simply stared at one another, waiting for someone to do something, _anything_. Bruce's hands were flexing ever so imperceptibly, Diana's gaze was locked on Steve, and Steve was making a mental note of the distance between them, which, in a room roughly the size of the last apartment he lived in seemed nonexistent.

If he felt like he didn't belong here before, like this wasn't his place to be, right now it became blatantly clear that this arrangement wasn't going to work. Not for either one of them. They didn't need him, and he certainly didn't need them, and Waller—he was going to figure out how to deal with her without dragging a century-worth of history to the surface.

"I'm sorry," Steve spoke first, breaking the eye contact with her, his gaze darting toward Bruce before he looked away altogether as if the bookshelves to the left from him were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. "I didn't mean to interrupt. Didn't think anyone was-"

"You didn't," Diana interjected.

Bruce took a step away from her and cleared his throat. "I was just leaving," he muttered and brushed past Diana, pausing briefly by Steve. "Welcome to the team, Captain. We need to catch up sometime soon."

Steve held his gaze, unwavering, and then said, "We do." He wanted quite desperately to find out what this man knew about him, and how he learned it.

With that, Bruce was gone, his footsteps echoing in the hallway, and Steve wished he'd never left his allocated room a few minutes ago, the USB drive he'd left here earlier and now came back to find be damned. He could feel Diana's presence, her eyes on him; could smell what he assumed was her floral perfume permeating his senses and wrapping around him like a cloud, his skin tingling from her proximity. He could probably do nothing but look at her and breathe her in for as long as he lived, and it would've been enough. More than enough.

"Hey," Diana breathed out, and on some selfish, stupid level, Steve was relieved to notice that she was about as uncomfortable with this situation as he was.

His mind went blank.

"I didn't know you'd be here," he said when the words came back.

She shrugged. "It's easier for all of us to stay here when we're in town. Bruce… he may not always be willing to admit it, but he appreciates the company."

 _Of course_ , he does, Steve thought, feeling his stomach coil into a knot. _Of course_ , she'd be staying here. Where else? Jesus Christ, why didn't he think of that?

A wave of white-hot jealousy swept over him, blinding in its intensity. She wasn't his to claim, hadn't been for a very long time, he reminded himself. He had no right to feel this way, no right to have a bitter aftertaste in his mouth from swallowing his response, and yet one thing he knew for a fact – he was not going to stay here. Wouldn't be able to. If he did, sooner or later, he'd walk in on more than some sort of private conversation.

There were many ways to die, and sometimes, Steve felt like he was familiar with them all, but seeing Diana with another man was, by far, the worst one he could imagine. This was not worth it. If Waller wanted him, they'd have to make it work some other way.

He nodded, dragging his mind back to here and now. It was hard to imagine Bruce Wayne as a man running a shelter home for the lost souls, but there was more than altruism at play here so, to a certain degree, it made sense.

"So I've noticed."

Her lips quirked ever so slightly, curving into a faint smile that was gone before he was sure he even saw it. She leaned against the desk, hands gripping the smooth polished wood on either side of her hips. "And so are you, then?"

Her voice was steady. Even. A little curious. This was easy, and it was the easiness that Steve hated the most. The easiness they no longer had any right for.

"Only for tonight," he shook his head. "There was a mix-up, apparently." He sounded like a moron. "I'll sort it out with Waller tomorrow."

"Oh."

And maybe it was just him, and all the wishful thinking that Steve was trying to keep at bay, but for a flicker of a moment, she looked almost disappointed.

Not that she had any reason to be.

"Is it really you, Steve?" She asked softly, studying him in the dim light, her disbelief reflecting his own – over seeing her, as well as this farce of a situation in general. He wasn't quite sure yet what threw him off more.

He held her gaze. "We can do the glowing lasso routine if you want," he offered, his voice low he willed it not to betray him. "You would ask me all the right questions, and I would tell you every single thing I've ever said to you, and every single thing you've ever said to me. Those that were not meant for anyone else." He paused. "Or we can accept the fact that there is only one man in this world with my face who has a clear recollection of what you looked like when you first saw the snow."

The words tumbled out of his mouth, tripping over themselves as he spoke before Steve knew to stop them. A storm of emotions flashed across Diana's face when he fell silent as she looked at him, acceptance finally clicking into place.

"It's not your face that surprised me, but your association with Waller," she said, composing herself. "You know, after everything you said about not wanting to have anything to do with all of this." She gestured vaguely around them.

Steve picked a black USB stick from the desk, tossed it in the air and caught it effortlessly, desperately trying to divert her attention from the nervous jitteriness coursing through him that he was certain she couldn't miss.

"What? You never met a hypocrite before?" He breathed.

"Then why didn't you…" Diana began but trailed off when he glanced at her again.

"Why didn't I what?" He asked.

 _Why didn't you find me?_ She pressed her lips together, a shadow falling over her face as an unasked question and the only possible answer to it dawned on her.

"It wasn't this lifestyle you were trying to avoid then," she said – a statement, not a question.

She looked away, her tone impassive, and there wasn't a moment in over 60 years when Steve hated himself more than he did right now.

He put the USB in his pocket and rolled his shoulders in a half-shrug. Chose not to correct her.

"I didn't know what this would be about," he muttered, desperate to fill the silence that settled between them. "Waller isn't exactly a sharing type. I had no idea it would have anything to do with you."

Diana nodded, still focused on studying an empty wall in front of her.

"Otherwise you'd never come, undoubtedly."

"Undoubtedly," he echoed, and then cleared her throat. "Look, you don't want me here, I get it. Can't blame you. The last thing I want is to cause any more… discomfort, I guess. To you. Or anyone. I honestly have no idea what is it that Waller wants from your—" he cut off. "From Bruce Wayne. If I did, well…"

"And what is it that you want from her?" Diana interjected.

"What?"

"The deal. She said that you and she had a deal," she reminded him.

Steve shook his head. "It's nothing. Nothing for you to be concerned about," he brushed it off. "None of this… none of this is about you, Diana. Or us."

"I thought there was no _us_ anymore," she said softly.

"There isn't," he confirmed, and she nodded again, pushing away from the counter this time.

"Well, I'm glad we're on the same page here."

"It's what we do best, don't we? Being on the same page?"

"Right." A pause. He thought she was going to shake his hand or do something else of that kind; something formal and cold and impersonal, now that they were here, in this odd place where they were neither strangers nor lovers, with a vast void stretching between them. Instead, she merely said, "Good night, Steve."

"Good night," he muttered to her back as she walked briskly out, all but sucking in her stomach when she passed by him lest they accidentally touch, as Steve tried not to think of her heading to Bruce Wayne's bedroom, wherever it was for fear of losing his sanity.

He was so screwed.

 **To be continued...**

* * *

 **A/N:** Feedback and yelling are much appreciated :)

Also I have quite a lot of backstory in my head, so if you want to discuss anything or have any question – let me know!

(I SO CAN'T WAIT FOR THEM TO GET BACK TOGETHER!)

I hope you're all enjoying this season, whether or not you celebrate anything, and I'll see you in 2018! :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note** : I hope you all had a lovely holiday season, whether or not you celebrate anything :)

I am terribly sorry for taking forever and a half to update. It was supposed to happen a week ago but it turned out that I have grossly overestimated my chances of having any writing done while I was travelling. Road trips and writing don't mesh, primarily because the laptop keep sliding off the dashboard.

(*Okay, I was asked not to joke about it. I was not writing while in the car)

In unrelated news, New Zealand is spectacular!

Anyway... Dig in! Have fun! And let me know what you think :)

* * *

Funny how there was no such thing as forgetting. One could push something out of the way, bury the memories in the darkest corner of their mind, shut them out and pretend they didn't exist, but it would not make them disappear. Not ever. They'd lay low, waiting for the moment to come rushing back to the surface, shockingly bright and clear at times, knocking the earth off its axis in their waking like it was nothing.

Funny, Diana thought, how one could never see it coming.

 _Steve_.

He was back, pulling the rug from beneath her feet right when she finally started to believe that it was no longer possible, that she'd seen enough to never be caught by surprise again.

And the memories… They were tricky, too. Stored so far out of her reach, they remained intact despite her desperate attempts to scrub them clear out of her mind. Sunlit mornings, lazy kisses, wind-tousled hair and squinting eyes, the vibration running through his body when he laughed, the eyes so blue they reminded her of the sky over Themyscira – she'd never seen the sky this blue in man's world, and part of her was grateful for it. For keeping a piece of her own world intact, for as long as it lasted.

She remembered the low husk of his whisper, how his chest was rising and falling when he slept stretched on his back beside her, the dreams they'd shared the likes of which she hadn't allowed herself to venture into since. Bliss. Sweet, endless contentment. Her heart nearly bursting with so much joy it almost hurt to feel it as the happiness seeped out of her soul that couldn't contain it.

Then there was an apartment in Paris and the sound of the door closing behind him, so final it was almost like it separated _before_ from _now_. She remembered walking slowly toward it, somewhat in a haze. Remembered having her palm pressed flat to the worn wood that could use a lick of paint, acutely aware of its warmth and roughness against her skin. Remembered it blurring before her eyes as the tears came, the tightness in her chest growing unbearable as she slid down to the floor, unable to find her breath, a hot lump lodged in her throat.

There were so many ways to lose someone, but this… this one was the cruelest of them all. She could hear the fate laugh at their silly, naïve hopes for something that was never meant to be. Uncertain of how they ended up here, in this hollow, empty place that threatened to turn her inside out with grief, Diana thought of how she'd been taught to fight and to survive and to defeat anything and everything in her way, but no one ever told her that there were more ways to lose a person than she could count, and not a single one to truly accept it.

She remembered Steve's fingers in her hair and the sound of her name on his lips, and she remembered crying until there were no tears left - for everything that was lost, for the emptiness that was yet to come, for impossible decisions, and for everything that should have been but never would be.

All the things that she wished she could forget.

It was those memories that pushed Diana out of her bed at the crack of dawn the morning after he returned while the whole house was still sound asleep, the stillness around them amplified by the silence of the forest and their remote location. If nothing else, she had to give Bruce that.

Diana kicked away the blankets and reached for her jeans draped over the back of the chair, a thin film of sleep clinging to her mind still. She twisted her hair into a sloppy knot as she headed for the door, the hardwood floor cool under her bare feet. Not a single creak.

It was only when she picked up her boots and her hand closed around the knob that it occurred to her that Steve Trevor – _the_ Steve Trevor - was currently somewhere in this house, and the thought made her heart skip a beat before sprinting into a wild race in her chest. This was the closest she'd been to him in nearly seven decades, and her stomach tightened momentarily. Funny how there were things that you simply couldn't get over, no matter how much time had passed.

He might have left already, or not stayed the night at all, she told herself, and the unexpected disappointment at the idea jolted through her, a pang of sadness catching her off-guard. If he had, it would be for the best, Diana thought, but it didn't sit well with her for the reasons she wasn't ready to go into.

Against her better judgement, she hoped that she was wrong, and creeping down the dim hallway now, she wondered which room was assigned to Steve. Unlike the old Wayne mansion that she'd seen a few times but never been to on account of being burned down before her time, there were only a handful of bedrooms here. Enough to accommodate them all, but not enough to get lost in, per se. She tried to catch the movement behind the closed doors even, but everything remained so quiet it was eerie, making her feel like she was the only person alive.

She'd had this dream before, she remembered if a little absently. The one where she was the only survivor after the rest of the world had perished, failing to save it. The one that always left her with a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Down in the Batcave – the name still amused Diana even though there was no better one for that place, all things considered – the lights were dimmed, the computers lining one wall switched to a standby mode, and the hum of processors and air vents the only sound filling the cavernous space. And then her footsteps on the grated bridge added to it, echoing under the high ceiling as she stepped out of the elevator and headed toward the nearest workstation.

She booted one of the computers, its screen coming to life, illumination her face, and then typed 'Steve Trevor' into the search engine, her fingers moving swiftly over the keyboard, only stumbling once. Diana didn't know how Bruce had access to just about any database there was, maybe short of the one belonging to FBI - there were certain things she'd stop thinking about a long time ago - but they sure could come in handy now and then. She wondered then why it never crossed her mind to do that, search for Steve. But then again, she never had a reason to before, if only because it never stopped hurting, and cutting the old wounds open rarely was a good idea.

If there was anything she'd learned in this world, it was this.

However, it was different now. It was not a whim but—

 _What_? Diana shook her head, as if physically pushing away the answer she didn't want to consider. Wasn't she supposed to have moved on already? Wasn't the time supposed to heal?

She leaned in closer when the screen went still.

A handful of results came up, but none of them was her Steve. Not that he was still hers, Diana reminded herself. The thought that she'd had plenty of time to come in terms with, but zero ability apparently. A little disappointed, but not surprised, she narrowed the search down by excluding everyone of the wrong ethnicity and body type, but even that didn't help. He'd spent nearly a century hiding from the overly curious by now, of blending in. She rubbed her forehead, her eyes sore from too little sleep and her mind swimming from too much thinking. Steve would know better than to let himself be found, leave alone by someone like Amanda Waller. Which begged the question—

Which begged a hundred of them, and neither one of them, Diana knew, could be found in this dungeon of a room.

His surprise was genuine. No one could feign the kind of shock she saw on his face – like the world as he knew it shattered before his eyes, like someone kicked solid ground from underneath him – when he first laid his eyes on her not 24 hours ago. It was hard to believe that it had been less than a day – it was starting to feel like a lifetime, the uncertainty seemingly making the time run slower somehow.

She could ask him. Knew he might refuse to answer. Knew she wouldn't actually do it either. After all, what they were now, exactly? Strangers, at best. It hit her then that up until yesterday, she had no way of knowing if he was even alive. All this time, she merely assumed that he was.

The thought knocked all wind out of her.

Diana closed all windows; the screen went black as she pushed away from the table and stood up, not sure how long it had been. It could have been 30 minutes or a few hours, the passage of time entirely warped, stretching and shrinking before her eyes. What she did know was that she'd lose her mind if she stayed here, in this house, so close to—

It occurred to her then that in all the time they'd known each other, their time as something in-between was so brief she could barely remember it. She knew how to be his lover – too well, for her comfort – and she knew how to exist without him, however unbearable that was. But this? The awkward dance they did in Bruce's study last night – it was like crossing No Man's Land all over again, only this time, it was a minefield of unsaid words, or the words that should never have been spoken.

She grabbed her jacket and found the keys to one of Bruce's cars, knowing he wouldn't mind if she borrowed it for a few hours, and then she was speeding away from the glass walls and suffocating memories, her chest feeling less tight with every mile left behind, her grip on the steering wheel loosening eventually.

She needed to escape, the burning desire to be as far away from this house, this city, this moment in time so strong she could barely stand it.

There was a meeting with the sponsors and a collection that needed to be unpacked and sorted out for the upcoming exhibition and a pile of paperwork waiting for her in Paris, the routine of her life suddenly very appealing compared to what was happening here. She needed to change her ticket and head off right away. There was nothing for her to do here, Bruce could deal with Victor and Barry, and Arthur was going home any day now, too. She didn't know where that left Steve, and part of her – the one designed to keep her sane – didn't want to.

She took a sharp turn at the intersection, bypassing the city and heading southwest.

Steve Trevor's life was none of her concern anymore.

"Traitor," Diana said not without accusation a few hours later when Clark opened the door, bathed in the sunlight streaming through the windows behind him.

He flinched and stepped aside, pulling the door open wider to allow her to come in.

"Diana!"

Curled up on the couch, Lois perked up at the sound of her voice, her face lighting up.

She all but leaped from her seat as Clark locked the door and ran his hand over his hair. "In my defence, she saw the message first."

"Because he asked me to check if it was Terry," Lois deflected without missing a beat and pulled Diana into a brief hug, brushing a kiss to her cheek.

"Because I was in the shower," he countered, sheepish at the weak argument.

"Yes, thank you, that makes all the difference," Diana noted dryly, and the tips of Clark's ears turned pink. "Gossiping, Clark, really? Shouldn't you have better things to do?"

"We're journalists, it's what we do," he grinned.

"What happened to fighting for the truth?"

"Is it really him?" Lois interjected before Clark could respond, watching Diana with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. "Is it-"

A shadow passed over Diana's face, her smile fading. "Yes."

Clark stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pants and cleared his throat. "How many Steve Trevors are there, though?"

"Quite a few," Diana admitted, her mind going back to those search results, "but none of them has his face. Or our memories," she added softly.

That, and she knew that Steve was right the previous night – she didn't need the Lasso of Hestia to know it was him, her heart recognized him before her mind did.

"Are you okay?"

"Hm?"

Lois turned to Clark. "Don't you have that _thing_ to finish that Terry asked you for? That urgent _thing_?"

He blinked at her. "Huh?" Her eyes darted pointedly toward the bedroom, one eyebrow arched. "Right. _That_ thing. For Terry. I better get back to it."

"You didn't have to do that," Diana said when he patted her on the shoulder before brushing past them and disappearing in the bedroom. The door closed softly behind him.

"Yes, I did," Lois put the book she was still holding on the kitchen island and pulled Diana toward the living room. "Come on."

"He can still hear everything," Diana noted with a faint smirk.

"He is going to pretend that he doesn't," Lois responded.

Well, at the very least, _this_ felt somewhat normal.

"How's it been?" Diana asked, nodding in the direction where Clark disappeared.

"Phenomenal," Lois responded, her eyes inquisitive. "But I'm going to assume that you didn't drive for several hours to talk about me."

"I'm sorry, I should have called."

"That's not what I meant," Lois shook her head, her voice soft. She lowered down on the couch, but Diana kept on moving until she was standing by the window, looking at the street outside, marvelling at how the world kept on spinning when her life was tearing at the seams. "How are you, really?"

"I never thought I'd ever see him again..." Diana trailed off. Until this moment, she didn't realize how much she was still waiting for it, hoping to hear the sound of his voice once again, and somehow, this realization was harder to come in terms with that Steve's return. "It's been so long."

They didn't know. Not everything. Not to a degree that mattered.

Bruce figured out some things because of the photograph, but even he only put together a few scant pieces, not seeing the whole picture. The others were merely aware of something in her past that Diana wasn't fond of discussing. Lois new more than all of them, but not everything. Not the things that were both too dear and too painful to speak of. And how would Diana even put something like this into words? Something like losing the love so great that it tore her apart, and even now, the shattered parts still didn't quite fit the way they were meant to.

Some things were better off left alone, buried where no one could find them. Where she could keep them safe.

Maybe this was why she and Lois clicked so easily. Lois knew loss.

Diana tried to remember how exactly they ended up here, how they took the leap from her standing above Clark's lifeless body and Lois looking up at her with haunted eyes, her face streaked with hears and her pain palpable in the air, to finding understanding where neither one thought to look in the first place, and failed. What she did remember was that Lois didn't want anyone's pity, she didn't need empty words of consolation or meaningless reassurance. She wanted someone to _understand_.

Something that they all needed now and then.

"So what's the plan now?" Lois asked after Diana filled her in on the basics and fell silent.

"I'm not sure why Bruce agreed… he didn't have to. I mean, Steve-" She cut off and swallowed, his name tasting odd in his mouth, so long it had been since she spoke it, and now suddenly she had to say it for the fifth time in two days. "I don't expect him to want to… to do it." She let out an unsteady breath, not trusting her voice not to crack. "What happened between us… It was because he didn't want to be involved in any of this. In doing what the League does."

"Things change. People change." Lois said diplomatically. "You don't know what happened in—how long has it been?"

"Sixty seven years," Diana muttered. They flew by in a blink, it seemed sometimes. "And yes, I don't."

A part of her didn't want to remember Steve the way she did – his lopsided smile, how he looked at her like she was the finest thing in creation, how he always knew how to make her laugh, the way his hands danced over her skin, sparkling her alive like nothing and no one else could.

Lois studied her for a long moment. "What's he like?"

Diana hesitated.

There was a time when she thought that he knew him better than anyone else, better maybe than he knew himself, yet the last time they spoke, she could barely recognize him, the memory of that day painfully fresh in her mind. Their brief interaction last night gave her nothing. He could barely look at her, his voice strained, so unlike the soft tone she longed for. A stranger wrapped in the skin of someone who used to be her world. He looked odd in the clothes that didn't belong in the 1950's, too, and she probably looked alien to him as well.

"The same. But different." She shook her head. "I'm not sure it makes any sense."

"More than you think," Lois responded with a small smile.

"We didn't have a chance to catch up," Diana added dryly. "And probably never will."

"Do you still-" Lois started and cut off when Diana's expression closed off; she cleared her throat. "Do you want to? Do you _want_ him to stay?"

Diana considered her question – something she didn't quite thought to decide, too caught up in reacting to what was happening rather than trying to see it for what it was and make her own choices.

"I'm not sure he wants to stay," she replied at last.

Lois's features softened. "That's not what I asked."

Diana dropped her gaze, then looked out the window again. "I don't think I want him to, either."

Maybe if she said it enough times, she would actually believe it. Heavens knew she wanted to.

xoox

Bloody Waller with her bloody secrecy, Steve thought, jumping in one spot so as not to lose his balance as he tried to get dressed the way he used to in the army – in under 30 seconds, and impeccably, at that. If there was one downside to a civilian life, it was losing some skills that grew unnecessary and obsolete over time.

It had been some 40 years since there last was a need for him to remember any of the training that Steve used to think was burned into his very soul. Apparently it was not the case at all - even the most finessed skills tended to dull a bit when they were not in use. He wondered sometimes if loving belonged on that list as well.

His bags were still piled in the corner, he'd barely touched them. Whoever it was who packed them did a damn fine job, and Steve tried not to think about it, about some stranger going through his things, never mind that a toothbrush was perhaps the most personal of his possessions at this point. It didn't sit right with him nonetheless, either because it had been a very long time since the other people were making any decisions about his life, or simply because he didn't trust Waller. (That any of this was her doing he had no doubt.)

The initial plan was to get out of here before dawn, before anyone was up. However, he ended up staying awake half of the night, tossing and turning in the bed that was too big and too soft, listening to the sounds of the house, the creaks and sighs as it settled, the branches scraping against the wall somewhere, too loud for comfort. Tried to hear the others, too, half-grateful for not being to. He knew little about Bruce Wayne, almost nothing outside of what everyone else knew, but the man sure knew how to choose the doors, Steve had to give him that. It didn't stop him from _imagining_ things though. From remembering the kiss he'd been oh so unfortunate to witness, or thinking of everything else that was probably happening somewhere in this house. Of Diana-

The idea made him sick.

At some point, he rolled onto his stomach and buried his head under his pillow as if it could soothe his feverish mind. He had no claim on Diana anymore. No right to feel like a lovesick moron. This was supposed to be over a long time ago. He thought it was, believed it was, and yet, one look at her, and it was like nothing had changed, no time had passed at all. And _that_ Steve had no idea how to deal with.

He dozed off when the sky started to turn pale-grey. Through the haze of his slumber, he thought he'd heard footsteps outside his door, a faint creak of the floorboards. They paused, like someone was standing there, but it could have been just the house, or maybe he'd dreamed it. And did it really matter?

Steve woke up with a start a few hours later to the sound of the garage door closing with a metallic clang that made the outer wall vibrate, jolting him awake, remnants of a dream he couldn't quite recall clinging like a cobweb to his brain. Not exactly how this day was supposed to take off.

Walking briskly down the hallway, torn between taking his stuff with him and coming to get it later, after he'd talked to Amanda Waller because there was no way in hell he was going to stay here, Steve wondered if this place was the official headquarters of—what did Waller call it? Justice League? As christened by the reporters in search for an appealing and catchy soundbite – or just some sort of temporary accommodation, offered begrudgingly by Bruce Wayne in the absence of better options.

And then he cursed himself for already getting involved, his curiosity getting the best of him against his better judgement.

Steve paused when he caught the movement in the living room out of the corner of his eye to find Barry Allen sitting cross-legged on the leather couch, chasing something on the TV screen with the black controller, his eyes glued to what looked like a battle scene of sorts.

A video game.

Steve followed the narrative for a few seconds, and then asked, "Who's winning?"

"The bad guys," Barry answered without looking away from the screen, his face scrunched in concentration.

And then suddenly the screen went black, the controller fell on the couch, and Barry was standing right before Steve, the air around them smelling faintly of ozone. Like during the storm. Steve didn't even have a chance to so much as blink. "Vic's better with that stuff," Barry jerked his chin toward the entertainment system. "He can do it with his _brain_ and he always wins. Which is cheating, if you ask me."

Steve stared at the younger man for a long moment, at a loss for words. Yeah, sure, he'd _read_ about Barry, about him being fast, but seeing it for the first time, and having him act like it wasn't a big deal – which to him it probably wasn't, come to think of it – was something else entirely.

"Right," he nodded slowly after a brief pause.

Vic. The cyborg. Playing video games with his mind. Why the hell not?

He wondered then, if a little absently, if there even was such thing as getting used to any of this.

Sure, there was Diana, but she was only one person, and given their history, accepting the reality of everything that she was came naturally to him, all things considered. And she… she looked _human_. Victor Stone didn't. Steve hadn't quite made up his mind about Arthur Curry yet, although it was quite a relief that Barry at least _seemed_ , well, normal. Most of the time.

And then he reminded himself that he was, technically, one of them. To some degree. And maybe there was no one else to help the world. Maybe this was what being different was about. However, whether it was a curse or a privilege, Steve wasn't sure yet. Something neither of them asked for but what they were responsible for, whether they wanted or not.

He wasn't quite certain if he belonged with them, though.

There also was a chance he might never find out.

"Yeah, it's really impressive. You should see it sometime," Barry carried on as he followed Steve down the hall. "It's out of this world."

"I'm sure it is," Steve muttered, taking in the paintings on the walls and trying not to think of possibly, maybe running into Diana at some point in the next five minutes. Surely, she was still around here somewhere. He assumed.

"So, what's your deal?" Barry asked, falling into step beside him.

"Huh?"

"Well, I'm fast. Arthur's into aquariums, which is lucky because this place looks like one. Bruce has all the cool toys and such," Barry shrugged. "Vic is sorta self-explanatory. I'm sure you now Di's story."

"I don't," Steve murmured, but was completely ignored.

"And you are…?"

"Old," he cleared his throat.

Barry frowned. "And that's useful how?"

"I have no idea," Steve breathed out, just as bewildered, truth be told. "Hey, do you know-"

"Captain Trevor," it was Alfred's voice that cut him off when he and Barry reached the kitchen.

"Oh, breakfast!" Barry lit up at the sight of a pile of pancakes on the countertop, still steaming.

Steve paused in the entryway. The place looked slightly different in the daylight, large and open. It smelled of coffee and toasted bread and freshly squeezed orange juice, and he swept it with a wide glance, taking in an assortment of the state-of-the-art appliances and a table for half a dozen people tucked in the corner. Alfred Pennyworth was pulling butter and a jar of jam out of the fridge and setting them on the counter.

He was hard to form an opinion about, however it was the fact that he could easily keep Bruce Wayne on his toes, never letting him get away with any of his arrogant shit that made Steve like him a fair bit, and respect him a great deal. The man clearly was more than a butler and Batman's sidekick, although what else he couldn't even begin to imagine.

There was no one else around, and in half a second that it took Steve to figure that out, he failed to decide whether he was relieved or profoundly disappointed not to find Diana here. And then the images of her and Bruce Wayne flooded his mind, making even the smell of coffee nauseating.

"Would you like something to eat?" Alfred offered, either not noticing Steve's discomfort, or choosing to ignore it. Frankly, Steve was fine with both. "Or perhaps coffee?"

"Um… no, thank you, I'm good." He glanced around while Barry dug into his food, liberally drowned in syrup. "Do you—is there a way to get a cab here? I mean, I don't know the address…"

"Did you sleep well?"

"What?" Steve blinked. "Yes… great. Thank you. So about that cab-"

"You're welcome to use one of Master Wayne's cars," Alfred suggested, putting a cup of coffee in front of Barry and raising his brows at Steve in a silent question, but the latter only shook his head again.

"That's probably not a good idea," he said.

"That's not a problem," Alfred assured him. "Ms. Prince does it all the time."

 _Well, Ms. Prince is sleeping with him, which probably makes all the difference_ , Steve thought, forcing himself not to say those words out loud.

"Also, they're the coolest cars," Barry piped in around a mouthful of bacon and also grinning somehow.

"It's okay, really. I wouldn't want to risk stumbling into… any insurance issues."

Alfred shrugged. "Suit yourself, Captain Trevor."

Barry pointed his fork at him, "You're missing out, man."

Maybe so, Steve thought, but a sliver of dignity was perhaps all he had left, so maybe it was worth holding on to. Also, he wasn't sure that given an opportunity, he wouldn't want to ram one of Bruce's undoubtedly overpriced cars into the first fence he saw.

So really, he was doing them all a favour by calling a cab.

xoox

Suffice it to say that failing for find Waller ended up being a major kink in his otherwise brilliant plan.

"What do you mean, gone?" Steve asked.

Waller's secretary, Charlotte, looked at him over the thin rims of her glasses, not particularly impressed by his impatience, or his presence in the waiting area of Amanda Waller's office in general.

"As in – not here," she responded with pointed patience like he was a 5 years old, or just slow, which made Steve's hackled stand on end. "Did you have an appointment?"

"No, I just needed-"

"I suggest you make an appointment," the woman offered evenly, undoubtedly used to dealing with the people far more intimidating than Steve, he figured. Either that, or working with Waller did the job.

He took a steadying breath. "When is she going to be back?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that," Charlotte shook her head. "It's a confidential information. I'm sorry, what was your name, again?"

"Trevor. Steve Trevor."

"Would you like me to pencil you in as soon as there's an opening in Agent Waller's calendar, Mr. Trevor?"

"Captain," he corrected her automatically, and cursed in his mind for how irrelevant it was.

" _Captain_ Trevor," she repeated, her voice dripping with condescension. And arched an eyebrow at him expectantly for good measure.

Somehow, even sitting at her desk, she seemed to be two feet taller than him. It was probably her sharp suit, Steve thought. Or the fact that she was in her element, and he very much wasn't. Not since yesterday, at least.

He was starting to hate this city.

"I don't suppose I can get her direct phone number?" He asked, barely holding back his impatience.

His previous contacts with Waller were one-sided at best. Blocked numbers and burner phones, he assumed. She knew how to get a hold of him but never the other way around. It was inconvenient before, but now it had turned into an actual nightmare. He needed to speak to her.

"I'm sorry," Charlotte replied evenly, quite clearly being anything but. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Steve rubbed his eyes and let out a frustrated sigh.

In his haste to resolve this issue, it never once occurred to him that Waller might not even be here to hear him out – and how naïve was that, really? - and discuss the matter that she, apparently, decided for them both.

"Would you please ask her to call me?"

"Of course," Charlotte nodded.

He had a distinct suspicion that she wasn't going to.

He nodded still, though, and thanked her before heading for the elevators, out of earshot when Charlotte pressed a button on the intercom.

"Agent Waller? He is gone."

" _Good_ ," Waller spoke from behind the heavy door separating her office from the waiting area, her voice cracking with static. " _I'm still not here if he returns_."

"Yes, ma'am."

xoox

Steve stepped outside and squinted in the bright late-morning sunlight, his mind reeling. Of all the things he'd expected to go wrong, this was not something he even considered, although faced with this damned situation now, he wasn't surprised. He couldn't imagine someone like Amanda Waller sit and wait for someone like him to storm into her office, demanding an explanation. That, and he could bet every last cent that he had that she was there right now.

He ran a frustrated hand over his hair and looked around, at the stream of people moving up and down the street, not one of them caring about him, and there was comfort in knowing that. He was here, but he wasn't. Invisible to the world.

Stuck.

Steve didn't know much about Waller, and what he did know didn't paint a pretty picture. Her reputation preceded her. She was known for being ruthless, determined, unapologetic, and those were her good qualities. He didn't want to jeopardize their agreement by taking the next plane out of this city. He needed her help, and she needed him, apparently, for the reasons he didn't quite understand except that he was a bargaining chip in the game with Bruce Wayne who had some kind of agenda as well, which might or might not be an issue in the long run.

He wondered, if a little absently, if he even wanted to find out anything about that, or if he'd rather get out of this mess as soon as possible and just let them deal with it without him.

Steve turned toward a line of cabs on the other side of the road, and then stopped.

As per his deal with Waller, he was supposed to join a team – which team, she conveniently forgot to mention, and at the time, it didn't matter. So long as she was willing to hold her end of the bargain. However, what that meant for his living arrangements Steve didn't know, but now he would still have to stay at Wayne's house until he spoke with Waller. He wouldn't put it past her to screw him over for something as small as moving to a hotel.

Shit.

In all his years on earth, Steve Trevor prided himself on his ability to adjust. One had to be good at it, he figured, in times of war when nothing was certain, and more importantly, in all the years that followed when life was chaos and his sense of self was nowhere to be found. What others viewed as a handy skill was a matter of survival for him. It helped perhaps that there was no settling for him, no normalcy that could trick him into thinking that his life could be anything but this wild race against the time where there could be no winners.

And all the while he ignored how weary it was making him feel, how bloody tired he was of all this.

However, as it turned out, it was one thing to be used to the change in general, to be adaptable without feeling like the ground was being kicked from under his feet time and time again when he saw said change coming. And something else entirely when his world was turned inside out in a span of a few minutes, leaving Steve suspended in midair, unable to move, to breathe, to think. Not in a million years could he have predicted that his trip to Gotham would end this way.

If he did, he'd never have picked up a call from a private number on that fateful day three weeks ago. Never would have let a woman with a measured voice finish what she was saying.

Steve looked up at the skyscrapers towering over him, the bright sun reflecting off thousands of glass panes. He shivered in the crisp October wind that snaked under his jacket, half-regretting declining that cup of coffee a few hours ago.

Waller wasn't going to avoid him forever. After all, she was just as interested in Steve's cooperation as he was in not being a part of this arrangement. And with any luck, they'd sort this out. One way or another.

His gaze landed on a line of cabs.

Until then, he decided, he might need to get his own car.

He was walking from the main road running through the forest surrounding Bruce Wayne's house after is taxi dropped him off at top of the driveway, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket and shoulders hunched against the evening chill when a movement near the lake caught his attention, an odd disturbance in the almost unnatural stillness of this place, which was somehow comforting and unsettling all at once.

He could see why Bruce chose the solitude of this place, and also how it might drive a person mad over time.

Steve paused in his tracks, mesmerized, as her watched Arthur Curry emerge from the lake, wisps of fog clinging to the water around him, making him look like a ghost. Like he was a part of this body of water as much as it was a part of him.

After a short hesitation, Steve stepped off the gravel driveway and headed toward Arthur across the lawn.

"How's the swim?" He asked when Arthur was within his earshot.

The other man ran his hand over his hair, pushing it back from his face, dripping wet. Steve took note of his bare feet and intricate writings running up his arms and torso in the language so ancient no one understood it anymore, the ease with which he carried himself, although admittedly, his size alone was perhaps enough to ensure that. At tall as Chief, Steve thought, an old memory jolting through him with a pang of sadness.

"Murky," Arthur responded, unfazed. "But old habits…" He trailed off as if it was supposed to make any sense. "Adjusting?"

"Might as well," Steve said, his gaze skimming over the lake and the dark forest looping around it, and the form of the house to their left, a few windows lit up.

"There are worse places to be," Arthur shrugged and picked up a cotton shirt from the grass, pulling it on over his head.

"Is this why you're doing this?" Steve turned to him, but in the dusk that had started to settle over them, Arthur's face was impossible to read. Still, there was a hint of a smile on his lips, his unnerving pale eyes studying Steve for a long moment. "Because being elsewhere is worse?"

"You were not here when those… _things_ came. The end of the world would've been more merciful than their reign."

"Yeah, Barry caught me up on so of that…" Steve trailed off, remembering a long list of casualties. "I've seen things. Seen people walk away from them, too. Not everyone wants to die in a blaze of glory."

Arthur's lips twitched. He let out a short laugh and shook his head. The man was hard not to like, despite his rough demeanor. Hard not appreciate his blunt honestly. It certainly beat the mind games that just about everyone else seemed to be so much into.

If nothing else, they managed to find the people who cared.

Sometimes, Steve thought, it was an achieving in and of itself.

"A reason as good as any," Arthur said at last, starting toward the house. He paused after a few steps and glanced over his shoulder. "You coming?"

xoox

A glass of scotch found its way onto the desk in front of Bruce. The ice cubes clinked in the amber liquid as Alfred set it down before taking a seat in front of the monitors glowing in the semi-darkness of the Batcave.

"You don't look happy, Master Wayne," he noted. "Not that it's been a frequent occurrence in the past 30 years." Bruce's lips twitched into a humorless smirk. "Anything in particular this time, sir?"

Bruce picked up the glass and took a small sip before setting it down again. His fingers tapped on the desktop, his brows furrowed. "Mistakes."

Alfred followed his gaze to one of the screens that was showing a live feed from the security camera mounted over the porch. The light was on, the door was open, and Steve Trevor was standing with his back to the house, his posture rigid. He looked left, then right, as if trying to see beyond the circle of the light, eyes straining to find the black shadow of the forest on the other side of the house. And then he turned around and stepped into the house.

"Ms. Prince didn't look particularly happy, either." Alfred said. "If his presence bothers you so much, why don't you make him leave?"

"Democracy. Apparently, we have it here now."

"Well, that's what happens when there's more than one person on the team," Alfred noted diplomatically, earning a stink-eye from Bruce.

"My bad," he muttered, earning a raised eyebrow and an impassive look in return. "Why did you vote in favour of him, Alfred?"

The older man leaned back in his chair. He linked his fingers together, rested them on his stomach and glanced at Bruce, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Wasn't this whole thing your idea, Master Wayne?"

Bruce frowned. "How?"

"Bringing the people with special skills together to fight against… whatever comes next. That was the plan, or am I wrong?"

"Steve Trevor has no special skills," Bruce pointed out flatly.

"With all due respect, sir, but if being twice as old as me and looking twice as young is not special, I don't know what is."

"I was just surprised, is all." Bruce rubbed his chin. His gaze flickered to the screen when the porch light went off, its timer running out. "He's a stranger, we know nothing about him."

"They were all strangers two months ago, and look what you've accomplished together." A fact, not even an argument at this point. "It's not like you had to do anything you didn't want to do, Master Wayne. You could have refused"

Bruce's jaw clenched. "Waller."

"And since when is her opinion of any concern to you? It's never been an issue before."

Bruce pressed his lips together before answering, "She doesn't do anything without a reason. I want to know what her game is."

Alfred raised an eyebrow.

"So it's not about the team, then." He paused. "Well, for what it's worth, I'm sorry, sir."

Bruce turned to him, confused. "About your vote?"

Alfred's face softened. "About Ms. Prince." When Bruce didn't respond, he stood up and headed toward the stairs. "The dinner will be ready in forty minutes. It would do you a world of good to leave this place now and then."

xoox

 _Italy, 1947_

 _He was awoken at dawn by Diana pressing slow, light kisses to his chest, her hair tickling his skin and his body responding to her touch before his mind knew to do it._

 _"Morning," she whispered, moving her lips up his throat and along his jaw. Steve's breath caught momentarily. He exhaled slowly, savouring the anticipation of immense pleasure building up inside him, flaring up with every touch of her fingers, her lips._

 _"Have you slept at all?" He asked in a low, groggy voice, amused._

 _"Mm-hm," Diana hummed noncommittally, her mouth reaching a spot behind his ear that made coherent thinking impossible, her hands trailing over his skin doing something absolutely wonderful, something that was making him forget his own name and everything else in creation. "I dreamed of you," she murmured, shifting to toss her leg over his hips, sweet weight in his arms._

 _Steve's hands slid up her back, her skin warm and silk-smooth under his touch, pulling her down to him, kissing her properly. "I'm not sure I'm awake yet," he muttered with a small chuckle against her mouth._

 _She laughed, soft around the edges in the early-morning daze. One eyebrow arched, she framed his face with her hands and caught his gaze. "I beg to differ."_

 _Yeah, well… She was not wrong. A hand of the small of her back, Steve rolled them over, spilling her on the sheets, burying himself in her, capturing a surprised sound that escaped her mouth with his. Deep longing and searing desire ricocheted through him with aching intensity. He nuzzled into her hair, arching into her, meeting her rock for rock._

 _Diana tilted her head, fitting her mouth to his, carrying him through waves of desperate, blissful pleasure. "I love you," she murmured in Greek, the words he grew to recognize over the years, her habit to slip into the language most familiar to her in the moments when there was no need for control._

 _It never failed to undo him in the best way, never failed to make his blood boil._

 _He found her lips with his, kissed along her neck as the sun rose over the horizon, bathing the room in the golden light, and the tide was whispering to them in the oldest language of all. He was not dreaming, but he might as well be._

 _"Let go, Diana," Steve murmured in her ear as they moved, losing themselves in one another and finding each other again. "Let go."_

xoox

 _Gotham, 2017_

Steve's eyes snapped open, the white ceiling above him looking grey in the pre-dawn light, and his breathing short, the remnants of half-dream and half-memory making his heart beat faster and his blood flow like molten lava in his veins. He let out a slow breath, his chest heaving, a thin film of sweat clinging to his skin. Some memories, Steve had learned a long time ago, had a tendency to come back when he least expected them, knocking his carefully constructed world off-balance.

Wistfully, he thought that these days, it was only in the brief moments between dreaming and wakefulness, when the veil between the worlds was thin that he remembered what happiness used to feel like.

He pushed away the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting up, waiting for his breathing to even out. Egyptian cotton was smooth and soft against his skin, but his body felt like an exposed nerve, prickling with the energy that hummed beneath his skin, making him want to claw his way out of it.

Steve closed his eyes and ran his hand over his face, pushing his fingers through his tousled hair. Rubbed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Decades of learning to exist in this world anew, and they were all undone in two days, chasing the comfort of whatever normalcy he'd managed to achieve away, his eyes sore from too little sleep and his mind on fire. It had been too long since he had to dance to someone else's tune, and the inability to walk away from this situation frustrated him. Wasn't it what he was fighting for? The freedom to make his own choices?

Then again, he needed to figure out what Waller wanted from him, how she even found him, and maybe this was what he needed, somewhere to start perhaps. Not a place, per se, so much as a break from everything else, a chance to get some answers without raising any suspicion. Maybe he could stop running away. Maybe he would finally get to the point of never having to again.

He could deal with Diana.

He could—

Steve sighed.

Maybe this was not the worst outcome after all.

The place was quiet, the commotion and the easy chat over dinner the previous night that dispersed the stillness of the house nowhere to be found. His steps echoed in the empty hallway as he headed toward the sitting room in hopes of finding Alfred – the only person who seemed to be both informed and also willing to share that information. If Steve was going to be a part of this, whatever it was, he figured he might as well find out what he was being dragged into before it was too late.

It was the sound of the cutlery clattering in the kitchen and the memory of the previous morning that got him to stop in his tracks and the change his course of direction, heading there instead.

It hadn't even occurred to him that it could be someone else other than Alfred there, or maybe Barry, until he saw Diana pull a cup from one of the cupboards as a coffee machine sitting on the counter beeped and turned off, the air around them filled with strong, bitter smell. Strong enough to make his heart run faster before he even took the first sip.

Or maybe it was her.

He paused, uncertain as to what the protocol was, but before he could flee – something that felt like the most natural response – Diana closed the cupboard door and looked up, noticing him in the entryway, seemingly just as taken aback as he was.

"Hey," Steve muttered and cleared his throat.

Diana hesitated, and then nodded. "Good morning." A pause stretched between them, thick and endless. "Coffee?" She offered after a few moments, the first one to snap out of it. She reached for another cup before Steve could respond, and suddenly running away was not an option.

"Yeah... thanks," he murmured, stepping into the kitchen. He didn't need his sanity that much anyway.

After all the years of holding nothing but a memory of her, it was odd to have a real person made of flesh and blood stand before him. No wonder he couldn't help staring at her, half in awe and half in fear that she was going to disappear before his eyes like a billow of smoke.

She nodded as if it wasn't a done deal already, and then handed him the cup – black, no cream, no sugar – without his having to ask for it, making Steve wonder what else she remembered about him. Which, in its turn, made him wonder how many things he knew about her that were so deeply ingrained into his memory he would carry them across several lifetimes. More than he was willing to admit, always lingering in the back of his mind.

Like that she took her coffee with cream and sugar.

Or that she used to like wearing his shirts, claiming it made her feel closer to him.

Or that she loved everything about the ocean.

Or that Steve loved everything about her. Couldn't not to. The past nearly seven decades proved as much.

He took the cup from her, their fingers brushing briefly, causing him to nearly jerk his hand away as if her touch shocked him with a jolt of electric static, his breath catching momentarily. He gripped the cup tight, the drink sloshing inside it.

Steve cleared his throat and muttered, "It's hot," on the off-chance that Diana had noticed.

She didn't seem to.

Instead, she refilled the coffee maker and turned it on again, and then looked at him, her gaze assertive.

"You're still here," she said - a statement (albeit a surprised one), not a question.

He shrugged. "So it seems."

"I thought you'd leave."

"Do did I."

She tapped her fingers on the granite countertop and nodded, glancing away for a moment. He followed gaze to the smooth surface of the lake outside the glass wall.

"There is no paper trail. Nothing on you, no proof that you're still alive," Diana spoke just as he decided that maybe he could just take his coffee and leave; that the conversation had run out of its course. "It's like you don't exist. Haven't for a very long time."

She met his eyes again.

"You looked," Steve said.

"I did."

He nodded, feeling like one of those toys that people put on the dashboards, those that bobbed their heads up and down, unable to stop. Like his neck was unhinged or something. He wondered then if this was the first time she'd done it, or if she tried to find him before. The thought made his heartbeat stutter and trip over itself.

"Is there a question in there somewhere?" He asked.

Diana leaned against the counter, arms folded over her chest. "Idle curiosity."

Steve followed the outline of her regal profile when she glanced out the window again, looking like she was cut out of a piece of marble. She was wearing a plain white tank top, and Steve's fingers itched to trace its straps, skim over the olive skin of her shoulders. From this close, he could smell something floral of her. Perfume maybe, or her shampoo, and it making him ache on the inside.

He took a sip of his coffee to divert his thoughts elsewhere. _Anywhere_. It was hot, burning his tongue and making it damn hard not to grimace. The taste was excellent though, which wasn't that surprising, considering where he was. Which somehow was all the more frustrating.

It was like his place was too good to be real. State of the art house, the bed so comfortable he couldn't even sleep in it, the food that tasted like it was made for royalty – all belonging to the man who had enough money to buy half of this city but who chose instead to bring justice upon the guilty. It was like Steve was waiting for this bubble to burst.

And Diana…

He met her eyes when she turned to him again.

"I'm a good spy," he offered with a wistful smile as if it explained everything.

And maybe it did. After all, he never particularly wanted to be found.

She nodded. "Always have been," her voice was nothing but a whoosh of breath.

All those years later, and he still couldn't understand the logic behind missing her more when she was standing right in front of him than when they were thousands of miles apart. It was about perspective, he thought absently. Wanting something unattainable was easier than craving what was right before him.

"Are you really doing this?" She asked him, and when he glanced up again, she was studying him like she was trying to see past the layers of the proverbial armour he'd been hiding under ever since he'd carved her out of his life but forgot to fill the gaping hole that she'd left behind.

"Looks like it."

"Because of Amanda Waller?"

The name made Steve flinch inwardly. "Because I need answers," he responded vaguely.

"About what?" She tilted her head, her eyes narrowed quizzically.

"I'm not sure yet," he admitted.

She was shaking her head, "I know all of this must seem like a joke to you-"

"You know me better than that, Diana," he stopped her.

"Do I?"

Her words landed on him like a blow. The one he probably deserved, Steve thought, but knowing that didn't make it hurt any less. They sucked all air out of the room, too, leaving him all but gasping for breath.

"Look, I know this is not the most fortunate turn of—" Steve started and faltered. "I'll find another place to stay. It's just… all of this happened so fast, but I don't want to—well, I don't want to inconvenience anyone here. Like… you. And your-" he thought he'd choke on the word. What was he? A boyfriend? A partner? A _lover_? Oh boy… It was safer to stick to something safe. "Bruce."

Diana's eyebrow arched. " _My_ Bruce?"

"You know what I mean."

"I'm sure I have no idea."

"Right." Steve cleared his throat. They were not going to have this conversation. He'd honestly rather climb into another airplane stuffed to the brim with explosives than discuss her love life. The one that he wasn't a part of. Just another point on the long list of his mistakes.

"Don't do it on my account," clutching her mug, Diana stepped around him, heading for the door. "Don't move out because of me. I don't live here."

Steve blinked, surprised. "You don't?" His eyebrows pulled together as he turned around after her.

"I don't," she repeated. "I'm going back to Paris."

 **To be continued...**

* * *

 **A/N:** More coming soon, stay tuned!


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note:** This chapter is 25k. Don't tell me I don't love you, guys :)

* * *

 _Gotham, 2017_

"So, how does this work? Is there a blood oath or something?" Steve asked when he found Bruce Wayne in his study, rearranging his collection of books, a half-full glass of scotch sitting on the massive mahogany desk behind him. "A secret handshake?"

Bruce glanced at him, neither surprised, nor particularly thrilled by the question. He scanned the shelf critically before turning to Steve. "That depends. What do you think you can bring to the team?"

Steve stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and arched an eyebrow at him, somewhat caught off-guard. " _You_ brought me here. And you're asking that _now_?"

"I'm not asking for myself, Captain Trevor. What do _you_ think you can bring to the team?"

"Why do you think Amanda Waller wanted me here?" Steve shot back, curious.

Bruce's expression darkened at the mention of Waller, his mouth twisted as if he bit into a lemon. And then it was gone as fast as it came, his face a mask of detachment.

The man was hard to read. Not impossible – no one was impossible, and Steve certainly met people who knew the intricacies of putting a wall between themselves in the other much better than Bruce Wayne could ever imagine – but he was generally used to an easier audience. Even so, the Batman remained quite an enigma. Their personal matters aside, Steve was beyond compelled to find out what pushed the richest man in Gotham to run around in a bat costume when it wasn't even his personal comfort that was disturbed by the people he was bringing to justice, seeing as how he was more used to people doing the exact opposite.

Guilt, he knew for a fact, was the strongest catalyst of all. Steve had read the reports, of course. He knew about Bruce's parents, about the robbery and how he was robbed, too – of his childhood and innocence and believing, like many kids did, that nothing could hurt them. That there wasn't a thing his parents couldn't fix. Steve knew all that, and now he was wondering if saving the rest of the world was Bruce's way of forgiving himself for not saving the two people who he wanted to protect the most but never managed to.

And that, he realized with a jolt of surprise, was something he could understand. Not in the same sense. Not in the same way. But they all started somewhere, idealistic enough to keep trying. That was what pushed him into the sky. That was what made Diana step into the boat that took her away from the one home she'd ever known. And that was, most likely, what chased Bruce out of the comfort of his house even though he probably knew better than anyone that he didn't owe anything to this world.

However, no one said that doing the right thing was supposed to come with a pleasant personality.

Bruce's lips curled into a humorless smirk. He gave Steve a pointed look and reached for his glass, taking a small sip. His eyes darted toward the liquor cart in the corner and then to Steve, a silent offer, but Steve shook his head. Someone had to keep a clear head here, perhaps.

"I would assume that Agent Waller found the fact that you're quite possibly immortal worthy of my interest," he mused, looking at Steve over the rim of his glass. Waiting.

"Is it?" Steve inquired.

Bruce shrugged. "If only all of us could look the way you do at… what is it, 136? Your birthday cakes must be crowded." He paused. "Did you know that you're the last surviving veteran of the Great War, Captain?"

Steve did, but he never thought much about it. It felt wrong somehow. A title he didn't earn. And maybe didn't deserve.

"So, you know who I am," he said evenly. "Did—ah, did Diana tell you that?"

He almost didn't care that his voice broke a little bit when the words tumbled out of his mouth.

The question tasted bitter on his tongue and he tried to push away an image of her having a heart-to-heart with Bruce Wayne, and the possible circumstances of that conversation. The one that made him remember the times when she was telling him of Themyscira on the nights when neither one of them felt like sleeping, clinging to fragile wakefulness for fear of missing a moment of shard time, her fingers carding lazily through his hair, or tracing the lines between his freckles like she way playing connect-the-dot, mapping the images on his skin.

This, Steve thought, was what he missed the most. The moments when he could feel the fabric of her very soul, wrapped around him tighter than her embrace.

Bruce pursed his lips into a thin line. "She was holding you very close to her heart for a very long time," he said, which wasn't an answer, and which somehow made Steve sick to his stomach – both the past tense of the statement, and a steady assuredness in his voice, an implication that she'd opened said heart to someone else.

He should be happy, Steve thought. He should be happy if she was happy. That was the point of leaving, wasn't it? To give Diana a chance to be what she was meant to be.

Yet, what he felt was bitter disappointment and a dull ache deep inside him, in a place where happiness used to live.

His father once told him that a love didn't have to be great to count, but it had to count to be great. Which made Steve wonder how exactly he was going to survive the next _God-only-knew-how-many_ years when his heart was beating in another person's chest, and he had nothing but himself to blame for losing her.

Still, he nodded as if it meant nothing. And then he swept the room was with a studious glance, taking in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and comfortable, expensive furniture, a selection of fine alcohol on the cart and half a dozen crystal glasses – everything he'd seen before but never had a chance to truly pay attention to. It was all so tasteful and dignified that it almost looked like this was a museum, and if it wasn't for a few pens and sheets of paper scattered haphazardly over the desk that threw this perfect picture off-balance, he'd think that the place was about to be photographed for a catalogue or something.

It probably was, knowing Bruce Wayne. The vanity of the man sure preceded him. Or at least as much of it as he wanted the world to see. There was certain advantage, Steve figured, to being knows as someone who only cared about himself for someone who wanted to hide the side of himself that actually cared. He doubted there was a person in Gotham who would ever suspect Bruce of being someone who was bringing peace to the city.

Hiding in plain sight.

They were all good at that, he thought absently. Just close enough to their true selves to remember who they were, but still out of reach. No wonder the League found comfort in numbers – they didn't need each other to survive, but being different must have been lonely for all of them.

Maybe that was why Victor only slept in his father's apartment a few nights a week. And why Arthur was stalling with his return home. And why Barry felt more himself arguing with Alfred about something or other than trying to navigate the outside world on his own.

And why Diana found someone to be happy with.

Steve wondered if a little half-heartedly where that put him. Was he still here instead of starting a new life because he knew that he could no longer hurt Diana, what with their emotional bond not being an issue anymore, or because he dreaded being a nameless face in the sea of millions other nameless faces? Was he standing here because he thought he could be useful or because he was tired of being useless? It wasn't Waller's games that he feared but perhaps becoming an invisible man once again.

He walked over to the bookshelf closest to him and scanned the spines pressed tightly to one another.

"You like classics?"

Bruce followed his gaze. "I do," he said. "My father started the collection. Thankfully, most of it survived the fire."

Right. The Wayne mansion. He's seen the skeleton of it, gaping black holes of shattered windows glaring at the world disapprovingly.

"No one is immortal, by the way," Steve added after a long moment. "Not even gods, let alone me."

Bruce let out a choked sound, something between a chuckle and a snort. "I'm guessing it's all about moisturising then," he said rather flatly. "Mind sharing your skin care routine, Captain? Is that how it works?"

"I'd start with not dying and go from there," Steve suggested evenly, earning a displeased look in return. "And to answer your question, Mr. Wayne-"

"Bruce," he offered.

"—I can fly."

"I can fly, too," Bruce countered.

"You can fly your fancy high tech toys that, let's be honest, don't even need you to do whatever it is they're doing," Steve shrugged, turning to him at last. "I can fly anything."

Bruce's eyebrow cocked, not quite impressed but getting there for certain. "Do you think we might need to fly a Cessna in any foreseeable future?"

"I think you've seen enough not to dismiss the possibility," a corner of Steve's mouth curled into a smirk. "Also, your security system could use an upgrade."

"So I've heard," Bruce muttered. "Are you an expert?"

"Picked up a thing or two," Steve responded vaguely.

Bruce gave him along assertive look as if he wasn't sure if Steve was kidding or being serious. Steve wouldn't have pegged him for a trusting guy to begin with – one wouldn't build a multi-billion conglomerate and keep it running like a well-oiled machine if he wasn't taking the world with a grain of salt, and a shot of tequila, for good measure – but this was different. This was personal.

Admittedly, he was only half-joking about a blood oath.

Bruce studied him for a long moment, as if trying to see the real Steve Trevor under a dozen layers of everything that Steve wore like armour for fear of losing himself completely. "Is there a word of truth in the dossier that Waller collected on you?" He asked.

Steve shrugged, not surprised that there was a dossier to begin with. "I have no idea, I've never seen it."

Bruce pulled a thin folder out of the drawer and tossed it on the desk before walking over to the window as Steve picked it up and flipped through several pages that offered little to no information.

"Well, they got my year of birth wrong," he muttered. "Shockingly, the name is correct."

"Yeah, I figured you weren't born in 1980," Bruce noted, observing the dull October landscape on the other side of reinforced glass. "Just like Diana wasn't born in 1985, but sometimes you have to work with what you've got."

Her name in Bruce's mouth made Steve's hackles stand on end. The way it sounded, so personal and possessive. A knee-jerk reflex. It might take he him a few lifetimes to stop thinking of her as _his_ , Steve thought. If ever, all things considered. He itched to know what Bruce knew about her, about them, about what had happened a hundred years ago, and afterwards; wanted to know what she kept to herself, what she deemed too intimate to share. If there was anything she'd kept to herself at all.

Did he know what her favourite colour was? Or her favourite smell? Or her favourite time of the day? Did they talk late at night when neither could sleep, their voices hushed, as if rising them could chase away the magic?

Steve pushed the image out of his mind and put the folder that contain nothing but lies that he'd created himself back on the desk. It wasn't about the past, after all, but about the future, and it was about damn time that he did something about it. Even if that _something_ didn't feel like the brightest plan of all at the moment.

Yet, while he didn't entirely mind the idea of joining the League, there was still something that kept rubbing him the wrong way. "If you don't want me here, which you quite obviously don't, I know where the door is. I can show myself out."

Bruce turned around. "What about Waller?"

"What about her?"

"The deal you've made-"

"Has nothing to do with you or anyone else here," Steve interjected firmly. "Just like whatever she's asked of you is between the two of you. I believe it's got nothing to do with me, either. Per se."

Bruce looked at him for a long moment and then nodded slowly. "Nothing personal then," he said in a voice that implied that he didn't believe it.

A stubborn determination to flee reared its head inside Steve. Did he really want to let this man play power games with the government at his expense? He might not have had expensive cars or a house the cost of which could probably feed a small country for a month, but that was the thing with the people who had nothing to lose – they didn't really care. There was comfort to being that person, even if deep inside Steve hated the feeling.

"None of this is, isn't it?" He offered, almost a dare.

Bruce nodded and set his glass on the desk. Empty. "I never said I didn't want you here, Captain Trevor." He paused, as if waiting for Steve to return a favour and offer to move to the first-name basis. He didn't. "With your experience and expertise… At this point, we can use as much help as we can get."

"A sentiment not everyone shares, I'm sure," Steve countered, desperately grasping for an excuse to leave, something that would make him reconsider his decision without feeling wholly responsible for it.

If he found it, he'd simply tell Waller that none of this worked out, which wouldn't be entirely his fault either way. And maybe then they could renegotiate their agreement.

"How did you survive that explosion? The gas alone would have killed you, even without the fire."

"Just got lucky, I guess," Steve responded evenly. "Why are you doing this?" He asked when Bruce didn't say anything.

"For the greater good," Bruce shrugged. "And because I don't like being manipulated, by the US government or anyone else."

"So, it's about a payback?"

"It's about defying expectations, Captain." Bruce Wayne's lips curled ever so slightly, the humour not reaching his eyes. "Welcome to Justice League."

xoox

People always said that leaving was the hardest thing in the world. Perhaps it was, or at least it could be. Making the decision. Taking the first step from the familiar and toward the unknown. A twinge in the gut. A hitch in one's breath. But those were momentary things, and once said decision was made, once you took that step, leaving was the easiest thing ever, exhilarating and intoxicating with possibilities. There was freedom to it, to the endlessness of what the world had to offer once you left your comfort zone behind.

Steve knew all of this first-hand; he had revelled in the sensation of starting anew more times than he could count, mindful of walking out of his old life before anyone would question the fact that he seemed to be frozen in time. Leaving was the price he had to pay for being alive.

He should have left, he was thinking now. It would've been so easy to walk out of Bruce Wayne's house and never look back, to keep on pretending that nothing had changed and that Amanda Waller's phone call hadn't derailed his entire life; that seeing Diana again hadn't knocked the ground from under his feet. He was good at that, at locking his feelings away where no one could ever find them. He'd had enough time to finesse that skill. At times, Steve felt like it was the only one he ever needed to survive.

He didn't owe them anything. He knew it, and so did Bruce Wayne. And so did Amanda Waller, and thus it looked to Steve like they were all playing an elaborate game of poker, bluffing with abandon to see who would blink first, and who would fold their cards for fear of losing everything. He wasn't sure what the stakes were, but he had a distinct suspicion that they were high. He had nothing in terms of power, no influence and no money that could make any difference that counted, but he'd lived long enough to learn to make the best of his odds, and more often than not, it was comforting enough.

He knew that he didn't want to be a pawn in their games.

Day after day, year after year, he watched the world move forward, listening to the newspapers and the TV scream about the progress, and all the while he wanted to laugh in their faces. The world hadn't changed as much as it thought it did, not in the hundred years that Steve walked the earth. Sure, the technology evolved, the weapons became more elaborate, and the focus of the society shifted toward comfort rather than mere survival. Yet, the wars remained the same – cruel and messy and destructive, and at the core, all everyone really wanted was to be happy. They were simple species, after all, despite their flair for complexity and not being able to see their needs for what they truly were.

He knew this because he hadn't forgotten anything, and that, Steve had learned, was his greatest power of all, for history forgotten was history repeated – he'd seen it with his own eyes, more times than anyone should have to. The least he could do was not make the same mistakes time and time again the way mankind did.

Leaving would have been the easiest thing to do, but somehow he couldn't bear the thought of doing it.

And so he stayed, a little tired, a little curious, somewhat unnerved by Waller's ability to unearth something he'd been after for several decades, and adamant to find the answers to his questions.

He stayed, and he learned about the League, from the files and the members themselves. They reminded him, in a way, of the people he'd worked with before, the memories of whom had started to fray at the edges, but never went away. They were the ones that he cherished the most.

He wanted to ask Diana if she remembered them, too. If she remembered the nights by the campfire, and Charlie's signing, and Sameer telling him to shut up only to get Charlie to start singing louder, and the pungent smell of Chief's pipe, the smoke puffing from between his lips, his voice often the softest, making the rest of them fall silent the moment he spoke. If the new people she was fighting alongside for the good things in the world gave her the same sense of déjà vu that was jolting through Steve whenever he saw Victor Stone argue with Barry over something or other while Arthur watched them with mild amusement, neither involved in, nor bothered by their bickering. Wanted to ask her if this was why she joined them, chose them.

Yet, in the three days that had passed since she'd told him that she was leaving and since Bruce Wayne welcomed him to his exclusive secret club, her presence was fleeting, and each morning Steve woke up certain that she was gone, too used to the idea of watching her slip away, by her choice or his. It didn't matter anymore - a loss was a loss. And even if they did manage to say a word or two to one another, he didn't think he even knew how to ask her about the times that felt so different from the lives they had now that they might have as well been a figment of his imagination.

The memories made Steve ache for the days long gone, when everything was simpler, safer, happier somehow, in part because he hadn't seen the worst of the world yet, and in part because he had another person to share his life with. He was trying to find a way to fit with the League now, even though he wasn't sure yet that he belonged with them. Bruce's question was running through his mind now and then, and Steve seemed unable to push it away, a nagging reminder of everything that made him _less_. What was he good at, really? Except survival, perhaps, but that was what they all excelled at, apparently.

But that was the thought for later, for after he'd spoken to Waller who seemed to have fallen off the face of the Earth. He had time. Maybe all of it.

He stayed. And he bought a motorcycle because he was tired of asking someone to give him a lift every time he wanted to get out of the house, being dependent on the others never sitting well with him – a character trait as old as time that he never managed to get rid of.

At first, Steve had his eyes on a sleek BMW, not unlike the fancy cars lined up in Bruce Wayne's garage. The decision was a no-brainer, really. It would've been a nice car. A reliable car. A good choice, all things considered. And then he saw that bike, a black Honda, a little worn-out and in need for a few touch-ups, not unlike Steve himself. It was a match made in heaven. And all the while, he tried not to think of it as an anchor of sorts, like he needed to prove to himself more than anyone that he was doing this.

His father used to have a motorcycle once, one of the earliest models ever made. To Steve's memory, its most definitive feature was breaking down when they least expected it, much to his father's frustration and Steve's delight – taking the old thing apart and putting it back together was the best treat a boy could have asked for. He inherited it when he turned 21 – one of the fondest memories Steve had of his youth. He hadn't had anything of that kind since. Hadn't realized how much he missed it.

"Couldn't you at least pick up something from this century?" Bruce asked when Steve rolled his new mode of transportation up the lake house driveway.

"It _is_ from this century," Steve responded, unfazed, still too exhilarated by the purchase to be bothered by the opinion of a man who was so concerned about the appearances that he probably picked his cereal based on the colour of the box rather than the flavour. "It just wasn't made five minutes ago."

Barry snorted, and coughed to cover it when Bruce shot him a look. "It looks _sick_ , man," he breathed out in awe, patting the leather seat with affection.

Even Victor left the confinement of the loft, drawn to the commotion – an almost unheard-of event.

"You might need to keep an eye on the oil," he said, studying the motorcycle with an expert eye, which was, perhaps, more words than he'd said to Steve since they met.

"An X-ray vision?" Steve asked, impressed, a lopsided smile gracing his face.

Victor grinned. "Experience. Those babies are neat but they eat through oil like no big deal." And added, "I had wheels like that my freshman year in college."

Before the accident, Steve thought. It was easy sometimes to think of what they gained with their abilities, and so hard to remember what they were robbed of. Normalcy. Maybe Victor could look right through them now, quite literally so, and maybe he could hack into any system in existence without even trying, but he could never ride a motorcycle again, most likely, or do other things that the ordinary people took for granted. Steve wondered then what Vic would have chosen if he had a say in his fate.

He looked up then, noticing Diana watching them from the front door, her arms folded over her chest, either curious or on the way out and now caught up in the excitement that she never anticipated as a bunch of _boys_ fawn over a new toy, her lips curved into a tiny smile. She caught him looking at her, and Steve saw her take a breath as if she was going to say something, but then her phone started to ring, breaking the spell, and she stepped back into the house to answer it.

In that moment, Steve thought that he'd never wanted anything more than to know what it was that he never got to hear.

"This is the coolest shit," Arthur's voice snapped him out of his daze, and when Steve turned around, the Aquaman was checking the gears and the handlebars like the bike was the finest thing ever to exist.

And was there anyone in a five mile radius who couldn't _feel_ Bruce roll his eyes? Steve could practically hear him think – _Really? I have Knightcrawler! I have two jets!_ If nothing else, it was amusing that no one seemed to care.

"If you drip the oil on the carpets, you're cleaning it yourself, Captain," Alfred said mildly.

Steve merely shook his head, chuckling under his breath. The bike was a small thing, but it was nice to have something of his own. Something that he had control over. It felt like a start – of what, he wasn't sure yet, but he couldn't wait to find out.

In the meanwhile, he was adamant to learn more about the mysterious ARGUS that Bruce mentioned during their audience with Waller and that she brushed off with deliberate nonchalance that set off Steve's inner alarms. There were some things that his life had taught him, and being prepared was perhaps the most valued of the lessons. He had a rather strong suspicion that she wouldn't tell him the truth even if he knew what to ask.

He could have talked to Bruce, of course, and the thought did cross Steve's mind, but there was stubborn determination in him to save that option for after all else failed. After all, a trick to learning secrets was pretending that you already knew them, and allowing the people to fill in the gaps. Hence, his desperate need for _something_.

"You should try Bruce's password," Barry suggested, sitting next to Steve in the Batcave as he munched on potato chips, watching the other man type away with abandon, digging deeper and deeper into the system like his very life depended on it.

Come to think, maybe it did.

Steve paused and looked up from the screen. "Which is?"

His had only gained proper access to this place yesterday, and even though he tried to pretend that there was nothing special about computers – he'd seen the becoming of them, after all, and everything else that followed was hardly as impressive as what the first IBMs felt like, those that were the size of a room – or a Batmobile, or another dozen high tech gadgets lying around, his attention kept scattering, his gaze roaming all over the place. He couldn't help but feel a little bit like a 5-year old in a candy-shop-slash-Disneyland, it was so fascinating and intriguing beyond measure. Not to mention the _car-slash-jet_ that he had yet to get his hands on.

It was almost a shame that he was too preoccupied with other things to actually allow himself to enjoy something that the majority of people weren't and would never be privy to.

Barry eagerly rattled off a string of letters and numbers, and Steve chose not to ask him how he knew this undoubtedly valuable and well-guarded information. This was the time to be grateful without questions.

"Thanks," he nodded with a small smile.

However Bruce Wayne gained access to the deep web… well, Steve didn't really need to know that, either. He was a spy, after all, he appreciated a good intel of any form and kind, wherever it came from. And it wasn't like he was hacking into a Pentagon in search of nuclear codes. Steve reasoned with himself that right now, the ends justified the means.

"So, you're _the_ Steve, then," Barry said all of sudden after he stopped gushing about something gross and gruesome he saw at work – not for real, of course. Just the photographs. The last time Barry wandered into the coroner's office – _by mistake_ – he had nearly passed out. (Something that he was oddly proud of.)

Steve was still wondering how much the police knew about him when they offered him a job, if anything at all.

"The one and only," he muttered, distracted, his eyes scanning the screen, not quite certain what he was looking for just yet, which seemed to be the main issue.

It would've helped perhaps if he knew what ARGUS stood for.

"No, I mean… _The_ Steve Trevor," Barry pressed persistently. In a blink of a moment, he was straddling his chair, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly as his studied Steve's profile. "Diana's… How'd you meet? Are you… like her?"

Her name made Steve's pulse trip over itself. He cleared his throat and reminded himself to… well, breathe. "I don't think _anyone_ is like her."

Barry's mouth curled into a small smile. "Well, duh…. But she wouldn't have… I mean… She almost ripped Bruce's head off when he took your name in vain that one time. Therefore, it stands to reason…" He trailed off, allowing the pregnant pause to wedge itself between them.

 _That_ got Steve's attention alright. He let go of the mouse and straightened up in his chair, turning to Barry, acutely aware of his heartbeat that escalated by the second, and grateful that super-hearing wasn't one of the Flash's gifts.

"She almost… Why?"

Barry blinked, and then shook his head, chuckling. "They say that wisdom comes with age, but apparently sometimes age comes alone."

"I'm sure there was a veiled insult in there somewhere," Steve hummed, more amused than offended, as he rolled his stiff neck from side to side.

It was, he had to admit, quite nice not to have to filter every word he was saying. To be himself for once, without raising any suspicion or judgement. That was the one thing he missed more than anything.

"I'm sorry, man, it wasn't meant to be veiled." Barry threw another chip into his mouth. "I know you're him, I saw you when-"

"Mr. Allen, we spoke about not eating here," Alfred's voice cut him off as he descended down the stairs, heading toward the two of them.

"They're just chips, Alfred."

"Yes, I'm aware," Alfred noted flatly. "As in – crumbs."

The first time Steve saw lightning zip along Diana's gauntlets, the sight of it stole his breath away. It was like a revelation, and he knew right there and then that this was something that he would never take for granted, something that he would never get used to, or treat like it was ordinary. Something that he would never forget.

The sheer force behind it was enough to send his mind reeling. A hundred years later, and he was still completely transfixed by the magnitude of her power. No, he _knew_ that she was strong, that she could toss a goddamn tank into the air like it was nearly as light as a feather, but it was one thing to _know_ , and another – to see physical manifestation of her strength, the one that would literally make his skin prickle with electric static.

There wasn't and would never be anything as magnificent.

And that was how Steve knew that he would most likely never get used to Barry moving faster than the speed of light. One second he was pouting at Alfred, and the next, he had an empty bag from potato chips crumpled in his hand, looking no less smug than the Cheshire Cat, still savouring the last bits of his treat.

"Isn't using super speed to eat kind of negates the point of eating?" Steve inquired, amused.

Barry only grinned in response.

Unfazed, or way too accustomed to the circus that the house had turned into lately, Alfred turned to Steve. "Master Wayne instructed me to provide you with the security codes, Captain." He handed Steve a printout with two neat columns of numbers.

Steve blinked, surprised. "That's… very generous of him," he replied.

"Well, he can always change them," Alfred shrugged, struggling not to smile.

Bruce Wayne might have had many flaws, Steve decided after a couple of days of living here, but his butler certainly wasn't one of them.

"Never stopped Diana," Barry muttered.

Alfred cleared his throat. "Ms. Prince is a woman of… many talents," he said not without affection, and the corners of Steve's mouth lifted on the will of their own.

He might have not ever be able to understand the man's fondness for Bruce Wayne – god knew, it went way beyond his comprehension – but this? This was something he could relate to. Even if he wasn't allowed to anymore.

"You going somewhere?" Barry asked, giving Alfred a curious once-over, taking in is jacket and shoes polished to perfection.

"Wayne Enterprises, if it still exists," Alfred replied. "Master Wayne forgot the papers he needs for the meeting that starts in-" he checked his watch, "—fifteen minutes. Great." He pursed his lips together. "Well, it'll teach him to come prepared the next time." A pause. "Then again, maybe not."

Barry perked up, "Would you mind picking up something to eat on the way back?"

Alfred looked at him over the rims of his glasses. "Sure, why don't I, in addition to being a messenger, become a delivery-boy a well?"

"Or we can order it," Barry backtracked eagerly.

"You know how the phone works, Mr. Allen."

He trailed off when the elevator doors slid open behind them with a soft whoosh, all three turning around to see Diana hesitate for a moment before stepping out of it and into the Batcave, the sound of her footsteps on the grated bridge echoing under the ceiling.

Her gaze fixed on Steve as she walked over to him, all beauty and power and unstoppable determination.

"Knew I'd find you here," she said in lieu of a greeting, nodding to Alfred and Barry.

"I thought you were leaving," he replied, for lack of better ideas, losing his ability to think coherently in an instant.

"I was." She stopped near him and dropped a morning newspaper on the desk before him, flat across the keyboard.

Steve glanced at it – a bold headline that meant nothing to him running across the top, right under _The Daily Planet_ , a few images splattered here and there – and then raised his eyes, meeting Diana's gaze again.

"What am I looking at, exactly?" He asked. It wasn't even a Gotham paper, as far as he was aware.

"The painting," pointed at the photo under the headline, depicting the one Darrell Quinn, an art benefactor from Metropolis, according to the caption underneath it, beaming at the camera. And behind him in what appeared to be an office of sorts was—

Steve's eyes narrowed as he tried to take in a grainy image, somewhat disbelieving.

"But that's-" He started as he looked up at Diana's again.

"Yes, it is," she nodded, her brows creased and her mouth a flat, displeased line.

He picked up the newspaper, "It can't be—are you sure?"

"The signature," she jerked her chin toward the photo. "Bottom right corner."

"It's been so long," Steve muttered, nearly poking his nose into the photograph to see what she was seeing. "Could it be a forgery?"

"Not impossible," Diana admitted after a short hesitation. "But I would like to make sure."

"Wow," Barry breathed out, his eyes darting between Steve and Diana when they fell silent. "It's like you guys share one mind or something," he said. "How do you even, like, finish each other's sentences every time?"

"Is everything okay?" Alfred asked, watching them with growing concern.

"Yeah... want to fill us in on the other half of the conversation?" Barry chimed in. "The one that happened telepathically, I'm assuming."

Diana glanced at Steve who offered her a 'go ahead' shrug, and then let out a breath. She leaned against the desk and folded her arms over her chest. "During the Second World War, there were military units, primarily German, that specialized in stealing everything of value," she started. "Mostly gold and gemstones, but also art and items of cultural significance. Books. Religious artefacts."

"Most of them were returned eventually," Steve added. "There are several organizations all over the world that do just that – track down the known missing pieces through private auctions and such. The statute of limitations on most of those cases had expired a long time ago, which make it both easier to track the stolen items because people no longer fear facing the consequences, and harder because it's almost impossible to retrieve them legally."

"We came across a few in the years following the war," Diana continued. "But it was mostly by accident. The people who took them knew how to keep them hidden, knew their real value."

"And those things… they required special knowledge," Steve peered at the photograph one more time and shook his head. "Anyone can tell an old book from a new one, but with art… there are ways to make a painting look newer than it is, or that technique when they put a new coat over the original work without damaging it to remove it later on."

"That, and the people used to be very careful about who they share those things with," Diana said. "It's very rare these days what you come across something like this," he pointed at the newspaper, "by chance."

In the silence that fell, she turned to Steve again, an unasked question in her gaze. Do you remember this? Do you _remember_? He did. In that moment, he felt like he was pulled into a wormhole of time and dragged nearly 80 years into the past so familiar this felt.

"I knew it," Barry blurted out, startling him, his eyes wide and shifting between them. "I knew it!" He repeated, practically leaping from his chair and almost falling in the process. "You," he pointed at Steve, "and you," his finger moved to Diana, "you two… I knew that you _knew_ each other!" He let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "You guys! Unbelievable…"

"What's going on?" Diana asked, a little puzzled, watching Barry with mild concern.

"Nothing," Steve muttered and rubbed his eyes. "Barry needs to leave the house every now and then, is all."

"I can't believe it," Barry breathed. He opened and closed his mouth a few times as if trying to come up with the words but finding none. "Also, I need to-" he cut off, a grin spreading over his face, so bright it all but set the whole place ablaze. "Arthur owes me 20 bucks."

With that, he disappeared in a flicker of light, leaving behind nothing but a faint whiff of ozone and the kind of static that made the fine hairs of Steve's arms stand on end.

He groaned with exasperation.

"Do I want to know?" Diana asked him, an eyebrow raised quizzically.

"God, no," he shook his head.

There was no way in hell he would ever want to voluntarily explain to Diana _how_ exactly Barry just won his lunch money. If nothing else, the mighty superheroes betting on them was so _embarrassing_.

"Ms. Prince, you'll be late for your flight," Alfred spoke, and _thank god for that_ because Steve was starting to feel the heat creep up his face.

Diana straightened up. "I'm not going."

"Of course, you're not," he muttered, not surprised. "Would you like me to cancel it and see if we can get a refund? It might be a bit last-minute-"

She shook her head; offered him a small smile. "Thank you, Alfred, I'll take care of it."

"Well, in that case…" he fished the car keys from the pocket of his coat and started toward the elevator with a parting, "You're welcome to use Master Wayne's art references. Try the bookshelf near the window."

"Thank you, Alfred," Steve called after him and looked up, his eyes locking with Diana's. "We're going to need more information."

Her smile grew softer, making him forget how to function properly. _God, how was he supposed not to stare?_

She nodded, "We're going to need more information."

xoox

The first time they came across the stolen paintings and other pieces of art was when they returned to Paris for a cleanup after Steve was discharged from the hospital in London, a couple of months before they left for Themyscira.

The city was half in ruins, and compared to London that managed to avoid major damage, it looked like the war was still raging on here, the destruction so startling, so devastating around them that Steve couldn't help but wait to see German patrols on the streets. Yet, there was excitement in the air, the pure, unadulterated happiness. Like freedom was something physical, something palpable to the touch, and the contrast between loss and hope sent his mind reeling.

It was the basement of one of the hotels in central Paris used as headquarters for the German high command that housed numerous works of art stolen from the Louvre as well as a few smaller museums and private collections over the course of the past few years, and even a few things brought from Italy and Switzerland. Everything that the Germans deemed even remotely valuable was meant to become a part of Hitler's private collection after the war or to be donated or gifted to the high-ranking officers, upon the decision of the Fuhrer.

All of the items were piled haphazardly in the dark room without any regard for proper handling, and it was a miracle that none of them were damaged beyond repair. A few chipped frames and one broken vase – they still deserved better treatment, but it could've been worse, all things considered. Much worse.

However, this spot was the first of many, and numerous items disappeared without a trace, either taken elsewhere from the beginning, or grabbed when the army fled France and other occupied territories, adamant to snag at least a consolation prize after losing the war.

Everyone knew about the looting, or, at the very least, had an idea. However, the problem was that the war left a large number of cities in several countries nearly wiped off the face of the earth, the population homeless, injured. At the time, cultural heritage was hardly a matter of primary concern – with the cut-off power, damaged water supply and near-starvation, no one cared about spiritual values. People simply wanted to have something to eat. The whole world seemed to be at a complete disarray, recuperating slowly from the wounds so severe that it was impossible to see the whole picture then. People needed to heal first.

It wasn't until the matter resurfaced world-wide a few years later when several pieces of art and quite a few paintings were spotted at auctions and in private collections that it became possible to address it properly. The countries decided that they wanted to get back what was rightfully theirs, the degree of loss finally estimated as it should have been. And it was too great to let those items simply slip away without a fight.

In the time that he and Diana had spent bringing Hitler's faithful supporters who escaped the first wave of arrests to justice, they came across quite a few more pieces of value. Highly educated in history, literature, and art, she could easily distinguish an original from a copy, leaving even the experts of that time period baffled. He'd watch her sort through the books and statuettes, the carved artifacts and canvases, her fingers that could crush the stone impossibly gentle, and pride would swell in his chest. She kept saving them even then, probably without knowing that she was doing it, allowing them to hold on to something that the war stripped so many people of – identity, belonging.

He wondered if this was how she ended up in the Louvre in the first place.

A few nights ago, Steve finally opened her file, which was surprisingly scant, considering that she was the one who'd lived the longest of them all. It merely stated her very much fake date of birth and that she was employed as a Curator of Antiques at the Louvre. There wasn't even a list of hobbies like in the other files. Concise and efficient, it said nothing of who Diana really was. Of how kind she was to children and strangers. How kind she was, _period_. How her smile could light up the room and make everyone feel at ease. Nothing that really mattered was in that folder, and Steve felt both profoundly cheated, hungry for scraps of information about her life without him, and relieved to know that Waller never got her hands on what truly mattered.

He glanced surreptitiously at Diana who was sitting in front of him on the other side of Bruce Wayne's massive desk, her head bent over a book, a slight frown creasing her forehead. And then once again, when she appeared to be too engrossed in her reading to notice, just to make sure he wasn't making her up. They had been cooped up here long enough for the darkness to fall outside, and for the stiffness to creep into his body. Diana turned the page, her gaze scanning the words. His eyes darted up from his own volume once more.

The fun thing about trying to dig up some information on something that disappeared before the era of mass digitalization was doing it the old-fashioned way, and if Steve was completely honest with himself, he preferred it to getting stranded in the world wide web, even if it meant slower progress.

He looked up at her again-

"Is there something on your mind, Steve?" Diana asked evenly, catching him off-guard and making his face grow hot to the tips of his ears. Apparently he wasn't as discreet as he tried to be. So much for being a spy…

Slowly, he raised his gaze just in time to catch a small smile playing on her lips as her eyes continued to move along the page, the line of her shoulders relaxed. If his blatant staring bothered her, he could see no sign of it.

A hundred years, and she was still making him feel like a never-been-kissed blushing schoolboy, which was ironic, really, because he remembered oh so clearly what it was like to kiss her.

Steve cleared his throat.

"I was just—I was wondering if this is what you do. In Paris." He stared very deliberately at the book in front of him, the words swimming before his eyes; tried to keep his voice as nonchalant as he could muster. Her file didn't go into her day job in great detail – Waller obviously wasn't overly interested in it, and he couldn't help feeling his curiosity bubble up to the surface. "Looking for stolen art?"

"Actually, no," Diana responded, and when he looked up, their eyes met. "I curate a few exhibitions and take care of the Roman-Greek collection. Also, I do appraisals and take care of acquisition of new items, and I supervise cataloguing. Among other things." She paused, studying him from across the desk. "Although yes, I did come across a few pieces in the past that were procured through… questionable channels."

"No need to be so modest, Ms. Prince," Alfred chuckled from behind Steve's back where he was flipping through Bruce Wayne's collection of antique books, looking for something that could be of use to them. He glanced at Steve over his shoulder, his eyes that glinted with amusement darted toward Diana. "She's so much more than that. She runs a whole department."

"You're making it sound bigger than it actually is, Alfred," Diana argued, tucking a strand of hair around her ear, flustered.

Alfred snorted. "Yes, because you're just pushing paper around your office all day," he deadpanned, and Steve smile against his will at the sound of infinite pride in the older man's voice. He put another volume on the desk. "Never mind the benefits and the functions and god only knows what else." She only shook her head, _I swear it's not a big deal_ , her expression reading when she turned to Steve, and even rolled her eyes a little, and the moment almost felt like something personal between the two of them. "And don't forget about your _extracurriculars_ ," Alfred finished.

"I would argue that the Louvre _is_ Di's extracurricular," Barry chimed in from across the room where he was sprawled in an old armchair, his legs dangling over the armrest. For the past hour or so, he was entertaining himself by playing catch with the wall by tossing a stress ball against it, a pile of books left forgotten on the floor near him after he'd gone through them in under five minutes. "I mean, if we judge by the impact on the world-"

"Did that wall personally offend you, Mr. Allen?" Alfred inquired, interrupting him.

Barry caught the ball and held onto it this time and beamed, choosing not to see the irony of how a stress ball was stressing out Alfred.

"You found anything?" Diana asked Steve, rolling her neck.

She let out a long breath and rubbed the corners of her eyes, undoubtedly as exhausted by the daunting task as he was, and no less frustrated by the lack of results than the rest of them.

They already had Victor dig deep for possible matches, but it had been nearly 80 years since the painting was seen last, the mentions of it bearing no information on the possible owner since then. They were merely a confirmation of its _still missing_ status.

He shook his head. "Maybe in the British Museum catalogues-" Steve started and cut off, a frown creasing his brows as he turned the page, his eyes fixing on a black-and-white image before him. He scanned it once again, more carefully now, taking in the details before turning the book upside down and pushing it toward Diana. "Look at this."

She pulled it toward her, ignoring a plate of sandwiches that Arthur lowered on the desk between them, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, so engrossed they were. He glanced at the photograph over Diana shoulder, his expression a dumbfounded - _Is_ this _what the whole fuss is about?_ Steve was certain he was wearing it ever since they filled the rest of the League in on what was happening – of them all, Bruce was the only one who appeared to be even remotely interested, if only because his own investment in art sort of called for a certain degree of knowledge on the subject.

Not that Steve blamed them – a painting stolen almost eighty years ago was hardly a matter of life and death, all of them having much more pressing issues on their hands more often than not. And, all things considered, this had nothing to do with the League. Only with Diana.

He kept waiting for them all to disappear one by one, find something else to occupy themselves with, and yet here they still were, hours later and bored, but still trying. Because it mattered to her.

If he looked around the room right now, he would see all eyes trained on her, a leader even where there was no battle to lead them into, all of them drawn to her like the cautious springs flowers were drawn to the sun. Bruce Wayne might have started this. The League, for all intents and purposes, might have been his idea, but it was her they were looking up to, her encouragement they sought out in the times of distress. If it wasn't for Diana, Steve thought, none of them would be as eager to be here as they were.

Bruce walked in then with another book retrieved from his bedroom in his hand and paused at her other side.

"Van Huysum," he murmured under his breath.

"Looks like it's the one," she echoed softly after a few moments, her finger tracing the line of a picture so old it was hard to make out the details.

Yet, it matched.

'Vase of Flowers' painted by Jan van Huysum, an artist from the Netherlands, in the late 18th century was one of a number of works that he did of flowers, many of which had similar names, which made it particularly hard for the historians and collectors to keep proper track of them after van Huysym's death, and after his finished pieces scattered over a number of museums and private owners.

According to the art reference encyclopedia that Diana was studying carefully now, this particular painting was stolen by German soldiers during the war from the Palatine Gallery in Florence, Italy. Its last confirmed location was Italy where it was being stored in 1944, although after that, it seemed to have disappeared from the records. Since the early 50's, it had been believed that the piece ended up in the hands of a private collector who was careful enough to keep this treasured information under wraps.

Until now.

"It could be a duplicate," Steve offered, still sceptical.

It was odd that the painting resurfaced now, after all this time, and so randomly, too. An art expert like Darrell Quinn, as the paper described him, would certainly know what it was, thus becoming an accomplice in theft. The statute of limitation on this particular case might have been over, but there were ethical repercussions as well as international relations and a number of other things that could be dragged into the mix should someone decide to pursue this issue.

"There's only one way to find out," Diana said, thoughtful.

"Yeah, because you can just walk into some rich man's office and ask to have a look at his collection of – possibly – stolen goods," Arthur deadpanned, folding his arms over his chest.

"Well, to be fair, you probably could, Di," Barry shrugged, snatching a sandwich from the plate and digging into it with gusto.

Alfred hummed in agreement, all of them now huddled around the desk, seven heads bent over a three-by-four inch photograph.

"Or, you could go to that reception or dinner or whatever he's throwing," Barry added, chewing with purpose and determination, and six pairs of eyes raised to peer at him. "What?" He asked around a mouthful of food.

"What 'reception or dinner or whatever'?" Bruce asked.

Barry shrugged. "It was in the paper. Some end of year… something or other. The boring stuff." He sighed with pointed exasperation, and rolled his eye for good measure. "Have you even read it?"

"A dinner," Steve muttered, already running his eyes over the article. No, he never bothered to check it, either.

"…followed by an auction," Victor finished, reading over his shoulder. "Held at the hotel that belongs to this dude, apparently." He looked up. "How rich is he, again?"

"You could probably just walk in there," Barry offered. "If it's a public thing."

"No, for something like this, you'll need an invitation," Steve tapped his finger against the page, fighting the mother of all headaches that started to build behind his eyes from the onslaught of information.

"Not the press," Victor offered.

"No one here is the press, though," Alfred pointed out.

Diana considered it for a moment. "Lois might be able to get me a pass," she said. "She works in _The Daily Planet_. I could… maybe I could talk to whoever wrote this."

"Are you really doing this?" Steve asked.

"Of course," she responded without hesitation. Her eyes locked with his, her gaze determined. "I can't not to—After all we've seen, all the pain and destruction, the people have the right to get back what's theirs, no?"

He wondered now and then how she could so easily strip those years off them without even trying. A few words, the tone of her voice – and he was back in the trenches, running after her through the mud, his fingers so cold on the rifle he didn't know how he kept holding it, slipping on the uneven ground but never pausing, not even for one moment. Not even because he believed in the great cause after having seen and done what the war had put him through, but because she did, and Steve wanted so desperately for her to prove him wrong. Wanted so fiercely to give her hope.

Because it was the right thing to do.

Because the world deserved better than what it had, and she could fix it, and she would. She would keep on doing it for as long as she lived, perhaps. And maybe this small thing wasn't going to shift the axis of the earth, but it was still worth the try.

Because this was Diana.

He'd stopped being surprised by that a long time ago.

Bruce cleared his throat. "If you need someone to come with you, I'd be happy to-" He started, but Steve's huff cut him off. "A problem, Captain?" He asked coolly.

"Yeah, well… no offence, Mr. Wayne," Steve rubbed his forehead, "but you're the opposite of _conspicuous_ ," he pointed out. "There isn't a person in Gotham or Metropolis who doesn't know your face."

"That's true," Barry nodded.

"He kinda has a point," Arthur agreed.

"If Diana is to go," Steve continued, "the last thing she needs is to draw even more attention to herself." He paused. "He's right though," he added, jerking his chin to Bruce.

"He is?"

"I am?" Bruce blinked, caught momentarily off-guard by the fact that Steve, of all people, went along with him.

"You are, actually," Steve agreed, earning a raised eyebrow of his own – from everyone around him. He could have sworn that Barry even whistled under his breath. Shockingly, though, the universe didn't collapse around him when the words fell out of his mouth. Maybe there were stranger things in this world than his agreeing with the Batman after all. "Look, I'm not saying you shouldn't go alone, but… What if there is security? You know, from the practical standpoint…"

Bruce drew in a breath, composing himself. "Whether this painting is just a copy he purchased for $20 on a flea market, or the original that he keeps locked up, it never hurts to have a backup," he said diplomatically, in the voice that Steve imagined him using on his investors.

"That man doesn't look like a flea market type," Alfred noted.

"You know what I mean," Bruce said and turned to Diana again. "Don't look at me like that, you know I'm right."

Diana was drumming her fingers on the desk. "It's in four days…" She looked up and scanned the men around her before her eyes fixed on Barry whose eyes grew wide with panic in under that brief moment – it would've been comical had he not started to practically shake.

"Me?" He sputtered. "Yeah, no. Formal wear and small talk – I don't think so." He shook his head with such vigour Steve thought he'd get a concussion. "Sorry, Di, but that's a hard pass. Not even for a very good cause."

Her eyes moved to Arthur, which made Victor snort.

"What?" Arthur demanded even though he didn't look particularly excited by the idea of a suit and small talk not a second ago, either.

"You don't exactly look like _the press_ , Mr. Curry," Arthur responded tactfully before Victor had chance to offer a far less generous jab.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're not bookish and boring, man," Barry interjected. "Think Clark, and take it as a compliment."

"Charming," Diana said flatly.

"Take Clark," Bruce offered just as Arthur said,

"Take Steve."

Steve snapped his head up. His pulse stuttered. He had to have heard it wrong.

The room fell silent and so still it that felt like something had sucked all air out of it as all eyes turned to him, and for a brief second, the time stopped completely.

He was certain that he could hear his own blood flowing in his veins.

"Probably not the best-"

 _Idea_.

"Done," Victor cut him off, drawing everyone's attention to himself and a hologram hanging right before him, a glowing list of names and number scrolling so fast that it was dizzying, his brows furrowed slightly in concentration and his fingers moving slightly conjuring one image after another like magic.

"Wow…" Barry breathed out.

"What do you mean – done?" Bruce growled. "Done what?"

"Their firewall is shit," Victor chuckled and closed the fist, making the hologram disappear. "It was a no brainer to add your names to the guest list," he added, his gaze shifting to Diana and then Steve, and then back to her. "No that press nonsense." He paused and sighed, "Let's be real, you two don't look like no reporters, either."

"Victor…" Diana started not without reproach.

"We agreed I will stop hacking _his_ systems," Victor pointed at Bruce, who rolled his eyes. "What else am I supposed to do? This is the one thing I'm actually good at."

 _Well, you could have asked_ , Steve thought, uncertain if he was thrilled or unnerved by this sudden turn of events. It was one thing to flip through a pile of encyclopedias that were published before Alfred was even born, but the idea of going on a mission—he really needed to come up with another word for the field work because it wasn't like they had missiles whistling over their heads—send his mind reeling. He was awfully out of practice, for one thing. And also Diana—

 _Shit_.

He turned to her, about to protest because surely she understood that this was a bad plan. Her boyfriend looked pissed as hell, and while it was mildly entertaining, the last thing he wanted was to—Okay, if he was honest with himself, there was smug satisfaction to all of this. Something he didn't want to dwell on. He still didn't want to cause any trouble, though. Not for some petty reasons. Not to her.

But before he could open his mouth, Diana's lips quirked, forming into a small private smile that never failed to render him speechless, and now was hardly an exception, all the much puzzling in present circumstances.

"Just like the good old times," she said softly.

No, not at all, Steve thought.

In the good old times, he would wake up every morning next to her, with the weight of her arm draped over him and her face tucked into his shoulder. In the good old times, he would slip out of the bed and she would roll over to claim the warm spot without waking up, which inevitably made him want to climb right back under the covers for another hour, or five. It would mean having Diana reach for his hand without even realizing she was doing it until he'd lift the knot of their fingers to his lips to kiss her knuckles. It would be drawing a map of pleasure on her body with his hands and feel his blood boil at the sound of his name falling from her lips in soft whisper. It would meant to be on the receiving end of her smile, and to never hold back if he wanted to touch her, saying the words of love whenever he pleased.

This… this was like having a treat dangle before his face and knowing that he could never get it, and that alone was making him want to refuse steadfastly to be a part of this.

Instead, Steve nodded, not trusting himself not to say something utterly ridiculous. God only knew how many times he was going to end up with his big foot in his even bigger mouth between now and the next week.

"Four days."

xoox

There were many an instance in Diana's life when she found herself standing adjacent to the people around her, separated from them by one thing or another, a few feet of distance that she couldn't cross. A daughter of the Queen, raised accordingly; the only child on the island full of adults; the only one not only discouraged but downright forbidden from learning the art of battle comprising the essence of her people, a lack of proper explanation for it making her feel even more alien to them all.

She was different, and this profound realization was the first one that managed to anchor itself in her mind a long time ago, back when the old gods still rules the Earth. A feeling all the more intensified when she came to live in man's world where every step felt like walking through a minefield.

An observer more often than a participant, she watched people move in and out of her life as though she was not a part of that process. At times, it made her feel proud and independent, even though there were moments when her soul ached with wistful loneliness and longing for more. Other times, she felt like letting anyone get too close to her would make her disintegrate when they left. Even now, after all those years, she still wasn't sure if she wanted to blend in or to stand out, her set of mind alternating between one and the other at the oddest of moments.

Like now when she was watching the fog creep from the forest surrounding the lake from the deck outside the lounge while the house behind her was so quiet that it made her feel like she was the only person left alive. The silence would be pressing had it not been for a slight rusting of the trees in the evening breeze, and she tried to decide whether she welcomed or dreaded the sudden tranquility, so different from the usual noise permeating the place.

The air was cold enough for her breath to be puffing out in small white clouds. The sun, half-hidden behind the trees, hanging low over the horizon, offered no warmth. It would be dark in less than half an hour, and her leather jacket provided little comfort against the damp chill of the late autumn.

Arthur was leaving soon, she thought absently, although not without a promise to come back whenever they needed him, and Victor had moved back to stay with his father, craving his own kind of normalcy. So far, Barry was the only one keen on sticking around for no reason other than the company, and she couldn't blame him. Gods knew, she was well aware of how heavy the burden of carrying a whole different person within oneself could be, the comfort of being able to share it with someone else, for however brief a time, almost overwhelming.

Her own life was waiting as well, the routine that made loss and destruction bearable.

And yet here she was, stalling, relieved beyond anything to have an excuse to postpone her return to France. All because—

Because Steve was the only person who had ever made her feel like one of his people, a part of the world where she didn't belong for the reasons that went beyond the fact that she was _more_ than the rest of them. Because for the first time in her life, to Diana's memory, he made her feel like she belonged, period. Because she could finally stop looking for his face in the crowds – a habit not the time, nor other relationships in her life had killed.

Because there was a warm feeling unfurling in her chest, never absent but dormant for decades. Alive again. And there was solace to it, if bittersweet and fragile.

She still loved him.

She always had.

She always would.

With him, she was truly at peace. Even after all this time. Even if Steve didn't feel the same way anymore.

It scared her, the lack of control, the absence of any pattern. Being used to constant change was different from being thrown into it against her will. And yet, she was going to stay even if heartbreak was the price.

There was a sound of shuffling footsteps behind her, and Diana recognized them as Barry's even before he paused beside her without a word, his gaze sweeping over the expanse of the water, his shoulders slouched against the chill. She took in a shuddered breath and exhaled slowly.

"It's awfully quiet," she said after a moment.

"Vic went home," Barry shrugged. "Arthur asked him for a lift to town because Bruce forbade him to so much as look at his cars." There was a smile in his voice that bubbled up into a chuckle under his breath. "After Arthur almost totaled his Volvo, that is."

The corners of Diana's mouth tugged upward. "So I've heard."

As had the rest of Gotham, quite likely. Bruce was very fond of his cars and didn't condone any recklessness, unless it was his own. Hence, the ban on Arthur looking, touching, or breathing anywhere near his prized collection of vehicles.

Diana couldn't remember the house being so empty and silent before. Not in her time, at least. She thought she would enjoy it, a moment of break – she loved the League dearly, but after all the time when she'd had only herself for a company, this sudden clamour around her felt overbearing now and then – but instead it felt sad. Like something was missing. She wanted them back. And the funny thing was that she knew for a fact that Bruce wouldn't want to have it any other way, either.

Loneliness was addictive, there was safety to it, and she, of all people, knew it all too well. But so was companionship and openness, and however unaccustomed Bruce was to those feeling, he was in too deep to go back to his old ways now. And he knew it, too, which, Diana assumed, was the main source of his frustration these days.

"It was epic," Barry added not without fascination that made her smile widen a tiny bit.

"Well, it'll serve Arthur right," she commented, more amused than reproachful.

"Don't tell _him_ that," Barry blurted out, mortified. "I tried to, but thank god, I run fast."

Diana chuckled and shook he head. "Noted."

Arthur loved being told what to do about as much as Bruce loved other people messing with his toys.

"You okay, Di?" Barry asked after a moment of hesitation.

She turned to him and offered him a small, reassuring nod.

"Are _you_?" She asked. "We all have different reasons for doing what we're doing here. But I wouldn't want any one of you feel like you're obligated to help."

Barry stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looked down at the wooden floor of the deck before glancing up at her. "Are we talking about me, or Steve?"

"You," Diana pressed.

If he didn't believe her, he chose not to push the subject.

"'Course I am." He turned to look at the water. The porch light came on behind them, timed to switch on at quarter to six. "You know, up until recently I couldn't even imagine that my life might amount to anything. Anything at all, let alone something meaningful." He looked at his shoes with a small rueful smile before raising his gaze again. "I didn't quite fit even before I became a freak—"

"You're not a freak, Barry," she objected gently.

"—but now," he continued, "the world doesn't seem like such a lonely place. And if we get to save a life or two in the process…" He shrugged. "I say, it could be worse." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Besides, the view here is nice. When it's not creepy, that is. Which is almost never, but still."

Diana laughed at that. "Well, so long as the view is nice."

"Look, I'm sorry about… about yesterday. That gala thing-"

"Auction," she corrected.

Barry scrunched his nose. "How are they different?"

She shrugged. "They sell things at the auction."

"Regardless." He cleared his throat. "If you really don't want to go with Steve. Like, _really_ don't wanna—I'd be happy to—I know the things are complicated between the two of you…" He left the rest of the sentence hang between them, his cheeks turning pink, but didn't look away from her, his gaze almost daring.

"Is that so?"

He let out a huff. "Come on, you gotta see the way he looks at you." And added under his breath, "Which, of course, you don't."

"He doesn't-" Diana started.

"Okay, here's the deal," Barry stopped her. "We know that there's some big bad story between you two, so we can skip you denying it and me trying to convince you because we… Well, first of all, because we spent the whole afternoon yesterday listening to you talk about the Second World War like you were there. Which you were," he trailed off under her unmasked scrutiny. "But also because you do this insane dance thing around one another. Like, you keep that three-foot distance between each other at all times as if the world might implode if you, god forbid, came any closer. You move, he moves… I swear it looks choreographed." He shook his head and rubbed his forehead, then glanced over his shoulder at the glass door and at Diana again. "Oh boy… We looked him up, okay? Vic and I, when he first came here, because… well, because you were weird, and you're – generally – the most normal of us all."

Diana was staring at him, too dumbfounded to speak.

"And he doesn't exist," Barry added hastily, misreading her silence. "I mean, of course, he does. He's holed up in the Batcave right now, and he also ate the last of peanut butter this morning, which was a bit of a dick move, if you ask me. But he doesn't exist in the way that would make the mean government lady want to push him on us, you know." He swallowed. "What we _did_ find was a photo from, like, before the Great War of a dude at some airbase or something who looks remarkably like the guy downstairs. So it got us thinking… And that time when Bruce mentioned someone named Steve Trevor…" His voice dropped. "We sort of figured out that you guys knew each other before. That he was someone like you."

"Like me?" Diana echoed, frowning in confusion. Somewhere along the way, she'd lost the train of this conversation completely.

"You know," Barry pointed up to the sky, which didn't exactly clarify anything. "Like, strong and bulletproof and such. Is he?"

She blinked. "No," she shook her head. "No, he's not."

"But he's old," he pressed.

She bit her lip to hold back a smile. "Not _that_ old."

"Okay, well…" Barry blinked. "Case in point…" he rubbed the back of his neck, uncertain if he should proceed, but then clenched his jaw and went on, "case in point – and it's none of my business, of course, and it's probably gonna sound stupid coming from someone, like, five hundred times younger than you – but if someone was looking at me the way you look at him, and the way he looks at you, I'd probably want to… to do something about it, I guess."

He shrugged again, and before Diana could respond, there was commotion in the hallway, the voices bouncing off the walls and spilling onto the deck through the open window. She could smell takeaway food, hear bursts of laughter, and her chest squeezed tight with fondness.

The electrified tension hanging between her and Barry, the words that prickled her skin like needles, dissipated into nothing.

"I hope they got Chinese," Barry muttered, starting toward the door.

"Barry," Diana called after him. He paused and turned to her. "Thank you. For the offer." She smiled. "And, between us, I think you'd look dashing in a suit."

xoox

Steve loved Bruce Springsteen.

He wasn't sure when and how exactly it happened, but one day a couple of decades ago, he found himself humming along with one of the songs when it came up on the radio, unaware of even knowing the words until then. And yet there he was, in his tiny kitchen, waiting for the percolator to brew enough coffee to wake him up and drumming his fingers on the counter to the chorus. Old man never failed to lift his spirits, somehow. Over time, he got used to clinging to the familiar. There was consolation in how music could never really die.

Now, the same song was filling Bruce Wayne's car, black and slick and so otherworldly-looking Steve all but expected it to lift off the road and soar into the sky, and it struck him how wistfully comical the combination was, how much the music clashed with the technology exuding it. How much they didn't belong with one another.

Yet, when he was fiddling with the controls earlier, filled with the nervous energy and out of other ideas, and the song popped up on one of the stations, he couldn't bring himself to switch it to something else. Techno maybe. It was hard to imagine Bruce Wayne being a fan of folk rock. And so he allowed the sound of Springsteen's voice to fill the space between him and Diana whose right wrist was draped with ease over the steering wheel as her gaze remained glued to the road, distilling the thick tension between them, somewhat. An intangible buffer.

Steve wondered if she could sense the contrast as well, and whether she minded it if she did.

He wasn't sure how to ask searching for words, struggling to get his thoughts together, desperate to break the silence, and scared of doing.

Of all the things, possible and impossible, that could have happened in his life, he was thinking now, ending up here, in the place, in this moment of time was something he couldn't have possibly imagined even if he had a thousand years to think it up.

They were driving to Metropolis accompanied by a steady patter of rain against the roof and tinted windows, a rhythmic dance of windshield wipers almost hypnotic. There were only two types of weather in Gotham, he had learned in the past few weeks – overcast and rainy, one merging seamlessly into another. Endless metamorphosis.

Yesterday, Alfred asked him if he needed a suit for the auction, and Steve assured him that he had one. He had a suit. And an apartment, too. In London. The one he hadn't set his foot in for decades, but it was still in his name nonetheless. He had money as well. Not Bruce Wayne's money, and not even Diana's, but there were certain perks to being alive almost as long as the stock market. He'd always been good at figuring out the odds.

Well, most of the time.

He glanced at Diana out of the corner of his eyes, at her fingers tapping against the steering wheel to the music, and chose not to think about the odds.

Earlier, after they picked up his suit from the drycleaner's where Alfred sent it the night before, Steve thought they'd be going back to the lake house, but Diana took the road leading out of town instead. He figured she knew a place where they could change, and hoped that that place wasn't the back of a two-door vehicle. Now, _that_ would be the kind of excitement he was perfectly fine living without. Either that, or the black jeans and tight jacket she was wearing were her black-tie attire.

Frankly, she could pull it off.

Springsteen's song ended and a commercial took its place.

Steve turned down the volume but chose not to turn it off completely. The idea of having to endure the company of his own mind and the silence hanging between them, the kind that made him hear himself think, was unbearable.

Aside from that, though, there was comfort to her presence, to the smell of her perfume clinging to his skin, to the small, kind smile that she offered to him when he happened to glance her way. Lately, Steve was starting to wonder if grief and pain could ever break a person into pieces so small that they would be impossible to put back together without losing something in the process. It felt that way sometimes, when his chest was so heavy, almost like someone stepped on it.

Sitting next to Diana now, soaking up every smallest detail he'd missed about her, was the closest thing to healing he'd felt in decades. For a moment, he even almost forgot about Bruce Wayne and his nearly palpable presence that seemed to hover behind Steve more often than not.

"Can I ask you something?" He spoke after half an hour of trying to ignore the fact that his very skin was all but tingling from her proximity.

Diana glanced at him. "Of course."

 _Did you miss me?_

 _Are you happy?_

 _Do you love him?_

He swallowed, his throat tight. Had to clench his jaw lest the words spill out of his mouth on the will of their own.

 _Do you still carry my darkness within you?_

"What do you know about Amanda Waller?"

Diana hesitated, a frown wedging itself between her eyebrows. "Not much," she admitted. "I've heard about her, but never met her before the day when… when you came back." She pushed her fingers through her hair, her other hand flexing on the steering wheel. "A while ago, she wanted to have a group of people with special abilities work for her, clean up the messes she can't take care of herself."

"A league of her own," Steve muttered, not quite certain what it was that unsettled him so much all of a sudden, a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach and a revelation that kept slipping away from him.

"A league of her own," Diana echoed. "This was before my time, but I'm aware that her plan had failed, essentially. Although not before she managed to gather dossiers on something like a dozen people who were labeled as meta-humans."

"Barry?" Steve asked.

"Barry. And Victor," she confirmed. "And Arthur, too."

"Why do you think she failed?"

He could see why Waller would want to try – he was surprised no one did it sooner, at least to his knowledge. This was why he was so adamant to protect his own identity, to make sure he never ended up being a lab rat. Why the rest of the League was desperate to do so as well.

"She wanted to force them into being something that they were not," Diana breathed. "You know full well that doing what we do must be a choice, not an obligation. It doesn't—it doesn't work that way."

He nodded. "What happened then?"

"She gave the files to Bruce in exchange for help with one of her charges who turned on her. That's all I know."

"You don't like her." A statement, not a question.

"It's not that I don't like her…" Diana trailed off. "I don't trust her." She paused. "How did she find you?"

"I don't know," Steve admitted with a shake of his head. "I asked, but she never told me." The world outside his window was nothing but a flurried smudge of grey. "She was the first one."

"Amanda Waller had information on me, Steve." Her voice cracked ever so slightly, although whether it was worry or frustration Steve wasn't sure. He hated it nonetheless. "It's how Bruce found out who I was. She, or someone else, had been watching me for I don't even know how long." Diana turned to find him studying her, his brows pulled together. "I help because I want to; because it's what I do. But I don't appreciate other people meddling with my personal business."

"Is she?" Steve asked. "Meddling with your personal business?"

"I think she knows more than she lets on, about all of us," she responded after a moment.

And if that wasn't unsettling, Steve didn't know what was.

He didn't see Amanda Waller as a threat, per se, but she definitely had a card or a few up her sleeve, and that was enough to leave him feeling helpless and out of control. Steve hated that feeling.

xoox

 _Metropolis, 2017_

The door swung open the moment Diana raised her fist to knock, revealing a tall man who seemingly filled the height and the width of it without much effort. A second of hesitation, and he broke into the brightest and the most excited grin at the sight of her, white teeth flashing.

"Clark," Diana smiled back, stepping closer to kiss him on the cheek.

"Glad you've made it," Clark chuckled and pulled her into an embrace.

Clark Kent, Steve noted mentally, taking the other man in.

Superman.

Another, less obvious, member of the League, so to speak, who had his own domain and, apparently, a rather low tolerance for Bruce Wayne's rich-man's bullshit. Steve decided that he liked him for that aspect alone, although it was his easy way with Diana that truly anchored this opinion. He had an open face and an infectious smile, admiration pooling in his blue eyes. The photographs Steve had seen didn't do Clark Kent justice, never capturing the lightness that radiated off him, which Steve realized with a start, reminded him of Diana.

As if on cue, Clark's gaze shifted from her and locked on Steve, making him remember skimming his dossier and reading something about his X-ray vision ( _which, god, was the most insane thing he'd ever heard of_ ). He doubted, though, that with the gaze this piercing he even needed it. Maybe his decoy glasses weren't that bad an idea after all, lest he incinerate everyone in his wake without even trying. ( _And he could that too, literally_.)

"You must be Steve," Clark said, and offered him his hand. Steve perked up, curious. It was one thing that he'd heard about Superman, but the other way around? Interesting.

"Yes. Trevor." He shook the other man's hand, noting that Diana already stepped into the apartment that was meant to be their pit stop for the next hour or so.

Half an hour ago, when they pulled into Metropolis and Steve finally asked her what the plan was, she told him that they were going to visit a friend, although right now he wasn't so sure if he meant Clark, or the red-haired woman who had her in a tight hug in the middle of the hallway. Possibly, both.

At last, the woman let go of Diana and stepped around her, her eyes narrowed a little as they took Steve in with apprehension and zero subtlety, making him feel like he was an exhibit in a freak show.

"Steve, this is Lois. Lois Lane," Diana offered after a moment or two, the sound of her voice nudging her friend to also extend her hand to him. "She and Clark are… together."

Yeah, he figured that much.

"Hi," he clasped her hand, still not quite certain what he did to deserve the kind of scrutiny he was under. His gaze darted toward Diana who had to purse her lips together to hold back a smile, slightly more amused than the situation warranted, perhaps. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Lois said, and Steve didn't believe it for a second. Not with the way she was trying to dissect him with her eyes, her head tilted quizzically to her shoulder. "I've heard… almost nothing about you."

He cleared his throat and shifted his suit, still in the clear drycleaner's bag, into another hand. "That's probably a good thing," he muttered, earning a chuckle from Clark in response.

"Well, welcome." Clark patted him on the shoulder and squeezed past the women and into the living room where he picked up the remote and turned the TV off before tossing it back on the couch. He glanced around, "The place is all yours."

"Thank you."

Diana draped her dress bag over the back of the couch, her expression softening until there was nothing but gratitude left, the sharp edges smoothed out into nothing.

Lois opened her mouth as if to comment, her gaze shifting from Steve to Diana, and he could have sworn he could hear the gears in her head work.

He braced himself for an onslaught of questions.

"Well, we better get going," Lois said instead, checking her watch. She reached for her purse and hesitated. "Are you sure… Clark could probably…" Her gaze darted between Diana and her boyfriend. "Come with you, maybe?"

"I thought you were on a deadline," Diana reminded her, an eyebrow arched.

"We are," Clark nodded, picking up his coat. "And Terry's going to kill us if we don't meet it." With his hand on the small on Lois's back, he steered her toward the door, grabbing her jacket from the peg on the way.

"It's just a dinner," Diana added, watching them with so much affection it threatened to spill over the rim, never bothering to hide it.

"Well, if you need something, call…" Lois started, glancing over her shoulder, not panicked, per se, but probably very much aware of about a million things that could go wrong in Diana's line of… well, work. So to speak. "Or text."

"Honey," Clark nudged her into the hallway before tossing a quick goodbye. "Have fun, guys." He paused for a brief moment, his expression sobering. His gaze lingered on Diana, a thousand thoughts passing between them, none very pleasant. Experience rather than overreaction. "And yes, call."

Steve offered him a small wave in return.

"Wow, your friend really doesn't like me," he muttered when the door closed, the lock clicking into place, and the silence settling over the two of them, interrupted only by the hum of the fridge and soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

Diana shook her head with a small smile. She folded her arms over her chest. "It's not that," she said. "Lois is… curious. And protective, I guess."

Steve flinched a little, unable to stop himself. "What did you tell her?"

"Almost nothing," she repeated Lois's statement. "Never thought that _that_ could be a problem."

"Well, it's very nice of them to let us use their home," he said, looking around at the stacks of books piled everywhere, a few magazines on the coffee table, a worn-out couch with soft quilt draped over the armrest, and pale sky outside the large window overlooking an endless sea of rooftops of Metropolis. "It's good to have friends who care about you." He looked around, taking note of a slight smell of the lemon furniture polish hanging in the air. "What did you tell them? About tonight."

"The truth."

Of course.

Diana's fingers flexed a little on her elbows. "Clark died six months ago," she said when Steve turned to her again.

"You were there," he muttered, remembering that particular report, supplied with half a dozen articles that featured grainy images, nearly unrecognizable but unmistakable nonetheless.

He imagined that they were taken by helicopters, or droids. A black shadow of Batman's suit, blending into the night; the red cape of Superman caught in the wind as he flew across the port to meet Doomsday halfway; a glint of Diana's blade reflecting the flashes of light. He could see her charging at the monster without thinking twice, lithe form and power incarnate rolled into one. He'd recognize her even if he didn't know to look for her.

(Sometimes Steve thought that there was his photograph in the dictionary as a definition of 'pathetic'.)

God knew it took Waller and her team quite a bit of effort to clean up Lex Luthor's mess. If it wasn't for Diana, though, they would all get exterminated, so maybe that wasn't that big a price, after all.

"And so was Lois." She paused, allowing her words to sink in. "It's… interesting how you can bond with someone over the loss of a loved one."

Steve's mouth went dry.

 _Interesting_ was one way to put it. _Devastating_ would probably be his choice of word. The loneliness and longing behind her words, an echo of the time long gone - they landing on him like a blow, making it hard to breathe. He'd done that to her twice, made her watch him die. Whatever happened between them, however much it hurt him to lose her, at least he never got to see her body drained of life, desperate for a chance to turn the time back and get those precious moments back.

He remembered—

He remembered everything about them. Every word, every moment like a pearl on a string, dear in its own way, unique and beautiful. But what he remembered better than anything else, with striking clarity almost, was how she touched him sometimes like she was scared that he might slip between her fingers, how she looked at him like she strived to memorize him on the off-chance that he might dissipate before her eyes.

Had the tables been reversed, had he been the one to see her die, Steve had no idea how he'd be able to live afterwards. How he'd be able to close his eyes without losing her time and time again.

"Well, he's back now," he muttered, not sure if he was talking about Clark or himself. Not sure if she knew it, either.

Diana nodded. Her voice carried none of the wistfulness when she spoke again. "We should get dressed."

xoox

The air smelled faintly of a vanilla-scented candle and floral bath salt sitting on the lip of a bathtub.

Steve stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink in a small bathroom cluttered with the things that people tended to accumulate when they felt secure, safe, at home - the most-lived in place he'd been to in over twenty years, perhaps. A stranger whose expression Steve could barely recognize stared back at him, seemingly just as surprised by the encounter.

By an unspoken agreement, Diana wound up with the bedroom while he ended up here, and now he wished that they could switch, if only so he could avoid dealing with the eyes of a man he could no longer see himself in and the silent questions to which he had no answers. He wanted to ask Diana if she felt that way too sometimes, if the familiarity of something unchanged was starting to wear thin on her as well. It was an odd feeling, he had to admit. Like knowing that the inside wasn't matching the outside. Not that there was anything Steve could do about it.

He pushed back from the sink and looked away, reaching for his tie resting on top of the pile of clothes draped over the back of the chair. His hands moved on autopilot affixing it around his neck without effort as Steve tried not to think of anything beyond the next few hours, summoning the plans for the upcoming night as best he could instead. It was easier that way, easier to think of a mission ahead of him, a task that needed to be accomplished.

That was the best thing about the military, he thought absently. Clear goals, his body knowing what to do long before his mind caught up. There was no semblance of routine in his life lately, and even though Steve deeply cherished being his own master, he couldn't help but crave structure and order now and then. Old habits…

The only difference was that he didn't need to wear a suit back then. It already felt uncomfortably stiff on his body, like a second skin that didn't quite fit. What a damn shame it was that it didn't come with a whole different personality to match the new look as well. Yet, ironically enough, it was a good distraction to focus on to avoid pondering the fact that Diana was somewhere close by, separated from him by two doors and fifteen feet and an abyss of life and memories that belonged to neither of them.

He wanted to be here, however. Instead of Bruce Wayne. Or anyone else, for that matter. With her, after all this time. Even if it didn't really count. Even if he had no right to feel that way.

Steve checked his watch and glanced at the other guy in the mirror – an involuntary gesture that he regretted immediately. A century of regrets looked back at him. Even after all this time, he still wasn't sure how to deal with it.

"Diana?"

Half a minute later, Steve rapped his knuckle on the door leading to the bedroom. If they were planning to make it before the auction began, they needed to get moving. It was one thing to be fashionably late, and something else entirely to be too late and draw unnecessary attention to themselves – the last thing they needed tonight.

"Come in, it's open," she called back, her voice muffled.

Steve turned the knob and pushed the door open.

"You know, I was thinking about that case in Austria in 1949—" he started and cut off abruptly when he found her standing in front of a vanity table in nothing but black lingerie, putting on her earrings that winked at him in the light of the fading sun that chose to make an appearance after several hours of a heavy downpour and was now flooding the room, colouring it golden. He could have sworn that she was glowing. "Oh… I'm sorry." Steve looked away, feeling the colour rise up his cheeks and his heartbeat escalate by the moment. Heaven help him… He cleared his throat. "I thought you were…" _Dressed_. "I'm sorry, I'll wait-"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her pause. "You saw me like this, Steve."

 _God, no, I did not. Not like_ this _. Never like_ this _._

Not when black lace was clinging close to her olive skin, thin as a whisper, making him want to trace its patterns with his fingers, see if it was as soft and delicate as it looked.

And now the image was seared into his mind for as long as he breathed.

 _Crap_.

"Yes, but that was when—" Steve stumbled over the words that jammed in his throat. "We're not-"

"Together?" He could feel her watch him for a few moments before she asked quietly, "What difference does it make? You can't unsee something."

 _Shit_.

He swallowed, hard, his jaw working as he tried to come up with something to say. Anything. Anything to stop thinking about her-

Maybe unseeing wasn't the problem, he thought. Unseeing wasn't an issue. Maybe the problem was wanting more. More than he could have.

He dropped his gaze, suddenly very interested in his very polished shoes while trying to debate whether or not it was okay to simply bolt out the door without another word, never mind that he wasn't fifteen years old and it was just stupid. Never mind that they'd slept together, for _years_. Okay, maybe he needed to stop thinking about _that_ , too.

Funny how it didn't really matter whether it was Diana who walked in on him naked, or the other way around – he was always the one with frantic pulse and hot cheeks. Some things never changed, apparently.

Steve looked up, doing his damned best to keep from staring at anything below her neck. He met her eyes in the mirror, half grateful for that buffer to intensity of her gaze, half hating it.

"It's just how it is," he breathed out.

"I see," she murmured, tearing her eyes away from his, and Steve turned away, choosing to look out the window instead, at the flat roof of the building across the street where someone forgot a football that used to be orange but turned into pale yellow from staying in the sun long enough for it to burn away the colour.

Somehow, it felt like a better alternative to marching out of the room. Or disintegrating on the spot.

"You know, sometimes I feel like I have mankind figured out," Diana spoke behind him, the plastic of her dress bag rustling as she unzipped it. "And other times, I think that I don't understand it at all."

"Welcome to the club," Steve muttered.

The problem was, he wasn't all that sure if the world really was worth the effort. Personally, he'd given up on trying to make sense of it a long time ago. Then again, maybe they were not meant to be understood. Maybe they were meant to be saved now and then, and the rest was only a matter of luck. That, at least, he was semi-good at.

"Steve?"

He snapped his head up to find Diana stand with her back to him, her head half-turned and the hair that was spilling over her shoulders a few minutes ago pinned up, twisted into an elegant up-do. The zipper of her black cocktail dress was undone, running from just below her shoulder blades to her waist.

"Could you…" she started.

"Of course."

He cleared his throat and moved toward her, crossing the room in two hasty strides, surprised that he managed to avoid tripping over his own feet in the process. The sooner they were done and over with this, the sooner he'd stop feeling like someone tossed him into a food-processor, so violent his insides were churning, the intimacy of this situation making his head swim.

His hands were trembling slightly when he reached for the zipper, careful to touch only the shimmering material but not her skin, mostly for fear of combusting right there and then. The elusive pull tab slipped out of his grasp twice before he managed to grip it properly and slide it up with a soft _whoosh_.

From this close, he could feel the warmth of her body, could smell the floral notes of her shampoo and her presume, and ocean, and sunshine. Everything that was _Diana_ for as long as he remembered. The very same smell that lingered on every single thing that he owned for months after he'd left. At first, it kept driving him insane, making him reach for her in the night, her presence so palpable that his heart kept skipping a beat every time he thought he'd heard her move about his tiny apartment. And then it started to fade, and Steve's much anticipated relief turned into dread – he wasn't ready to lose her completely, not when every other part of her was already gone.

Diana turned around slowly, her face mere inches away in front of his, inquisitive eyes darting between his. His gaze dropped to the ruby-red bow of her lips. She reached for his necktie, adjusting it a little. A familiar gesture that made something tender ache inside him.

"You look good," she said softly, her lips curved into a small, gentle smile.

"You look…" _ethereal, divine, breathtaking_. Steve faded off, his heart pounding in his ribcage, threatening to burst. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and then uttered, "We need to go, we're already late."

Diana hesitated, a shadow of something akin disappointment passing over his features. And then her hands fell from his chest. She turned away from him and reached for her clutch. Steve watched her slip on her black pumps and check her reflection one last time.

"Diana?"

She paused, her hand frozen near her face, and glanced at him.

Steve swallowed, "You look beautiful."

xoox

 _Déjà v_ é _cu._

 _A moment lived._

It wasn't the practicality of speaking every language known to humankind that never ceased to truly amaze Diana, but the ability to find a word for nearly every feeling a person might experience – something that gave her comfort. Understanding of herself that she treasured beyond everything.

The French were good at that, she had to admit; at finding the right combination of syllables to glimpse into one's soul.

And this was exactly what she felt, standing in the entrance to the ballroom of the Grand Metropolis Hotel that sparkled like Christmas tree and feeling like she was transported to the past.

There was a beginning to everything, and Diana's life as it was today started nearly four decades ago in a room much like this one, where the light was trapped in massive crystal chandeliers and intricate jewelry – the prisms bending it into infinity spectrum, and spilling it around in sparks and rainbows.

It was then, in 1979 in Vienna, that she was invited to an event much like this one, and despite all the reasons that she had to decline the invitation, Diana chose to accept it, still not quite certain as to why. It was there and then, during the cocktail hour, that she met the curator of the British Museum who was so profoundly impressed by hew knowledge of art and the history of its becoming that he offered her a position of an Exhibitions Assistant. It was there and then that she finally saw that there was nothing holding her in Paris anymore; that it was nothing but loneliness that kept her there in the first place. That Steve wasn't coming back – something that she knew all along but wasn't willing to admit even to herself.

She accepted the proposal on the spot, despite her distaste for London with its dreadful weather and the memories she wasn't particularly fond of, and the nervous flutter in her stomach at the change that was yet to come.

Diana wondered sometimes what would have happened of her had she not been in Vienna on that fateful day. Had she not taken a leap of faith and put blind trust in the gods of fate to lead her where she was meant to be.

The irony of being back to where she had started, at least in the proverbial sense, wasn't lost on her.

"Wow," Steve whistled softly under his breath, following Diana into the ballroom, converted for the occasion into an auditorium with rows of seats and a podium to display the bids. "It's almost like they're trying too hard."

Heavy drapes on the windows and original artwork on the walls, servers in impeccable black uniforms and the glimmer of silver and gold made the place look like the finest of palaces.

Her lips curved almost imperceptibly, his reassuring presence anchoring her in this moment. She wondered if he was even aware of his hand on the small of her back – a gesture so easy and natural she'd miss it herself had it not been for the warmth of his touch that spread up her body.

Diana turned to him. "They need to sell the atmosphere before they can sell anything else," she explained, not without mild amusement.

The corner of Steve's mouth lifted, making something warm unfold in her chest momentarily. "Okay, Ms. Prince, you're the boss. Lead the way."

It was a relief to be back in her element again, albeit the one slightly less familiar than the battlefield but no less comfortable regardless. She knew those people, or at least their type. She knew how to navigate these waters, and the right words she needed to say. If nothing else, she'd long learned to appreciate the solace of belonging.

 _Close your eyes and imagine_ , Hippolyta would tell her when Diana was a little girl and the world was far too vast and wondrous to waste any time on sleep, the night seemingly holding as many adventures as her days. _Close your eyes, Diana, and look into the darkness_ , her mother would repeat, stroking her hair, her voice soft and loving, a safe place in and of itself. _Let your mind take you beyond your wildest dreams_. And Diana would do that, glimpse into the void of endless possibilities, see herself on the wings of the wind, dancing with the stars.

She'd imagined this, too. Imagined Steve return to her like he'd done before, the past and the present colliding on the nights when nothing else could lull her to sleep and she craved to hear the sound of his voice so badly that it made her chest hurt. Daydreams were hardly the way to fix the world, but they sure knew how to make it more bearable.

And she was wondering now if perhaps she was dreaming again as he followed her across the room, looking as sure and confident as if he'd spent the last century doing just this, day in and day out. A few times she even caught herself reaching for his hand, and had to stop herself from twining their fingers together, so easy it was to forget about the abyss of hurt between them.

"They will have cocktails first," Diana explained softly. The program came with their invitations, courtesy of Victor, but she didn't need it - these events never deviated from the established pattern. "To allow the latecomers to arrive, and everyone else to meet, should they feel like it." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Steve nod. "The dinner will follow, and then the auction. It will close with the formal arrangements for the purchased items."

She'd picked up a list of the pieces to be auctioned off when they first arrived, skimming it briefly, not surprised but still mildly disappointed not to find the painting she was looking for on it. It had to be Quinn's personal item then.

He nodded again. "Do you know anyone here?"

"A few people, yes." Diana looked around, spotting familiar faces. An appraiser from Zurich she'd worked with a few times before; a collector from New York known for being more that a little snobbish; a Curator of the Modern Art Collection from the Museum of San Francisco. This auction wasn't major enough of an event to draw a big crowd, but even so… "The world of art is smaller than it might seem."

"That probably works for the world in general, too," Steve noted under his breath, his gaze scanning the room sharp and assertive. Diana barely resisted the urge to smooth out a crease between his brows with her fingers. "So, what's the plan?"

"I believe we should start with—Mr. Quinn!" Her gaze shifted past Steve's shoulder toward the man walking toward them, a broad smile spreading over her face.

Darrell Quinn paused before them, taking them in with apprehension. His mouth opened and closed, his brows pulling together as he tried to place them in his mind.

"I'm sorry-"

"It's Diana," she offered her hand to him, and he grasped it automatically. "Diana Prince."

A flash of recognition passed over Quinn's face as she spoke, softening his features. "Of course, Ms. Prince, how could I-" He shook her hand again, with more enthusiasm. "A dinner, several weeks ago. I remember you. I'm sorry, this is… not like me."

"The fundraiser, yes," she confirmed with a nod. They barely said two words to one another then, and she was more concerned about not being dragged into a conversation that would be impossible to escape than anything else, but it was a good starting point nonetheless.

"You were there with Bruce Wayne, if I'm not mistaken," Quinn added, visibly relieved to have remembered that.

Beside her, Steve tensed. His hand fell from the spot on her back, and her body was already missing it desperately.

"You are, I'm afraid," Diana countered without missing a beat, her voice even and mild. "Bruce and I merely happened to be there at the same time."

"My apologies, Ms. Prince," Quinn corrected himself. "I didn't mean to…" His gaze darted toward Steve.

"Oh, I'm sorry… Mr. Quinn, this is Steve Trevor," Diana introduced him smoothly. "My-"

She faltered, grasping for a word, and was saved by a server that walked by them with a tray of champagne flutes.

Quinn gestured to him to come over, passing the glasses to Diana and Steve before picking up his own.

"Well, to you and… _yours_ , Ms. Prince," he clinked his flute against Diana's. "I hope you will find what you're looking for tonight," he looked at her over the rim of the glass before drinking half of it in one gulp. "Always a pleasure to see you. Now, if you'll excuse me."

"Of course."

 _You and yours_ , she thought, watching him cross the room.

"So, that's him, huh? The infamous art thief?" Steve muttered beside her, following Quinn with his gaze. Being slightly shorter than Diana, he didn't have a problem disappearing in the gathering crowd.

"We'll see," Diana responded vaguely.

Darrell Quinn didn't look like the type, and he had a reputation to uphold, but then again, she knew better that to trust appearances.

Steve put his glass down on the nearest table without taking so much as a sip. Diana placed hers next to his. And then his hand was on her hip, drawing her to him, his head dipping close to her hers and his breath warm on her cheek, making her forget the world.

"There is a door right behind you," he said softly into her ear. "His office is on this floor at the end of the corridor behind the reception. It could be a good place to start."

Her hand curled around his wrist before Steve had a change to pull away. She turned her face to him. The impossible blue of his eyes was all she could see and his heart was beating so close to her that she could barely tell it apart from her own. Diana's pulse stuttered when his gaze dropped to her lips before Steve dragged it back up.

"Steve…" she started and faltered, for the second time in five minutes.

It occurred to her for a brief moment that to any outsider, this probably looked like an intimate moment between two lovers, and the thought made her throat go dry.

"Thank you," she whispered, feeling lightheaded from the smell of her aftershave and the warmth radiating from his body. "For doing this For… for coming with me."

"Like the good old times," he echoed.

xoox

 _Gotham, 2017_

All mistakes had a price attached to them, and Amanda Waller knew that better than anyone. Be it a life or a million of them, or a deadly disease spread in a blink of an eye, or chaos caused by those who foolishly assumed that they were above justice – there was always someone who had to pay for it.

Her job, quite literally, was to learn to use the words _cannon fodder_ and _collateral damage_ like it was nothing, as freely as talking about the weather. Two and a half decades and a dozen career leaps later, and she had finally mastered that skill. After all, there was no one else to do clean up the messes left by the criminals and the superheroes alike.

The one thing she still didn't have was control.

Gotham wasn't perfect – if she had to make a list, it wouldn't even make the top hundred. However, it was her city, her home, her choice, and feeling like she was a marionette while someone else was pulling the strings more often than not was getting under her skin. Hence Suicide Squad – she hated the name, but they needed one. Until it leaked into the press, and her life turned into an honest-to-god nightmare of dodging the questions that shouldn't have come to exist in the first place.

Hence the itch to get her hands on Justice League and stop feeling like she was being tossed around by a tornado of people who thought that they knew what they were doing when it clearly wasn't the case at all. She knew that eventually Bruce Wayne would get tired of leaping from roof to roof in a silly suit, and that Clark Kent preferred the farm life to the constant fight for justice, and that the rest of them would fall apart because there was nothing holding them together. Or at least that was the case until Wonder Woman came along.

A curse and a blessing all at once, and a massive kink in Waller's plans. No one was going to listen to her when they had a worthy leader to follow. Bruce Wayne could fool himself all he pleased, and maybe bringing them together was his idea, but everyone knew who the League would follow if they got divided.

Diana Prince was all but made of virtue and goodness. Who could ever beat that? They were all a little bit in love with her, too - you could see it in the battle, in the easy way they trusted her without thinking twice. Waller had studied every morsel of the footage she'd managed to acquire, CCTV and personal cameras, blurred photographs and accidental evidence, equally fascinated and frustrated by it.

Diana Prince didn't need the world, but the world needed her. The League needed her.

Hence the bloody agreement with the Batman when it was the last thing she wanted to be roped into. He was insufferable and impossible to work with, too unpredictable and lacking any respect for authority, but with him, she had leverage to offer. With Wonder Woman, there was nothing. The only problem here was, as it turned out, that she was fresh out of leverage. With the members of Suicide Squad safely locked away, and the files on the known meta-humans given to Bruce, she had no negotiation points.

And then suddenly Steve Trevor fell into her lap like a bloody Christmas present – another thing that came with a price that she was starting to regret. However, she wouldn't be Amanda Waller if she passed up an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone – to finally reach some sort of flimsy truce with the League and to shake Diana Prince's world just enough to remind her that nothing was ever as constant and steady as they all wished it could be.

Frankly, she didn't expect Steve to cooperate after her small ambush, but it didn't matter now. Not really. She was going to hold up her end of the bargain, eventually, however she doubted that by then, he would still care.

The door to her private dining room she always used if she wanted to dine in peace opened with a bang, giving Waller a start. It hit the wall, swaying slightly, the chatter from the restaurant wafting in through it – the exact thing she was trying to avoid.

She looked up from her Japanese salted salmon, more surprised than alarmed at the sudden disturbance only to find Bruce Wayne standing in the door, looking more disheveled than Waller had ever seen him.

"A word?" He asked in a tone that implied that it was hardly a suggestion so much as a command.

"Madam Waller, I'm sorry-" a panicked maître'd started, trying to squeeze past Wayne into the room.

Waller shook her head. "It's okay. I'll take it from here." The last thing she needed was an audience.

Maître'd glanced at Bruce without conviction, and it was then that Waller noticed another man that Wayne was holding by the collar of his jacket, his nose bloodied, red droplets staining the front of his shirt.

Interesting.

Waller nodded again, and the woman finally disappeared, although not without hesitation, closing the door behind her. She knew better than to intervene, thank heavens.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," Bruce said flatly, and the man he was holding glared at him – without trying to get free though, Waller noted, having given up by now apparently.

"Not at all," she responded in kind, watching the colourful pair impassively. "Anything I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?"

"I thought we had a deal," Bruce all but growled.

She leaned back in her seat, hands clenched together on the table, thinking how the glass of wine sitting by her plate was practically begging to be finished in one gulp. This was the first time in weeks that she didn't have to stay in the office until midnight, and, of course, none other than this man had to find a way to ruin her evening.

"We still do," she responded, more curious than confused now.

"Then what is this?" Bruce demanded, all but shaking a stranger in Waller's face.

"I don't understand-"

"I don't care if you're hiding from Trevor, but if you want someone to spy on me, maybe try to get something more… skilful next time?"

"I appreciate your determination to think the worst of me-"

"I wonder where it came from," Bruce snorted.

"—but I have never seen this man in my life." She paused, holding Bruce's gaze steadily, unwavering. The other man could have been another face in the endless corridors outside her office, she never bothered to get personally acquainted with everyone working for her, directly or indirectly, but the last time she checked, she knew better than to involve an amateur to do a job meant for a professional. "And trust me, if I decided to arrange a surveillance, you wouldn't find out. Not easily, at least."

Bruce frowned, glaring at her for a moment or two before turning to the man who didn't seem particularly impressed or interested, save for the death stare that he returned to Bruce.

"Then who the hell is this?"

xoox

 _Metropolis, 2017_

They had ten minutes, Steve thought, leading Diana across the lavish foyer and past the reception desk with massive granite countertop and several people having drinking in the lounge outside of the restaurant. Squared shoulders, steady footsteps - the key to not being caught, in his experience, was being good at pretending that he knew what he was doing. Fifteen tops. Anything longer than that, and someone was bound to get suspicious.

"Here," he steered her toward the last door on the left, their footsteps soundless on a thick Persian carpet that was so soft he kept thinking that they might drown in it.

Diana raised a curious eyebrow at him.

"Victor," Steve explained quietly. He glanced over his shoulder, relieved that no one was paying any attention to them, and turned the knob, pushing the door open. It gave in easily. "He showed me the plan of the building."

She followed him and closed the door behind them, just as soundlessly. "That was nice of him."

Steve pulled the heavy drapes on the windows closed lest someone notice the light and turned on the reading lamp, grinning at her from across the room. "I asked nicely."

But Diana wasn't listening anymore. She was looking past him, at the two by three feet canvas on the wall behind him, half hidden and out of the circle of light. Delicate lines and a heavy frame. As stunning as she imagined it would be. The photographs in old books didn't do it justice, not in the slightest. She walked around the desk to have a better look, her hand reaching to trace the carvings on the frame, assertive eyes taking in the details, looking for clues.

Steve straightened up and stepped closer to her, curious now, too.

It did look right. Very familiar in the way he couldn't quite explain, save for maybe dealing with a few other works that had that special air to them. Like they were something holy.

"What do you think?"

Diana leaned in closed, her fingertips carefully tracing the delicate strokes of the paintbrush as though it was a book written in braille and she was desperate to uncover its secrets.

"It's the original," she said softly at last, her eyes skimming the canvas nearly in awe.

"Are you sure?"

It wasn't that he didn't trust her. It was that the stakes were so much higher if she was right.

"Yes. There's a definite technique that Jan van Huysum used that you can imitate but can't copy exactly as it was…" She trailed off, glancing at him over her shoulder. "I'm sure."

Steve nodded. And then again for good measure, suddenly uncertain how the words worked.

"That's… great. I guess." His gaze darted toward the canvas again. "So, what now?"

Diana pursed her lips together. "It doesn't belong to this man."

"It doesn't," he agreed. "But you can't just walk out of here with it." He looked around Quinn's office, the corners of which were drowning in deep shadows. "Besides, you don't know-" Steve cut off when something across the room caught his attention. "Diana."

"I don't know what?" She turned after him as he skirted around the desk, walking over to the mantelpiece.

"Look."

There, on the marble shelf, between a framed license and a bronze bust sat a picture of Darrell Quinn shaking hands with—

"Lex Luthor."

She appeared beside him, silent as a shadow.

"But isn't he…" Steve started.

"Far more responsible for Clark's death than Bruce, yes," she offered helpfully, her tone ice-cold. "Despite what Bruce thinks."

"I was going to say _in prison_."

She looked curiously at him.

"What? I did my homework," he muttered.

And there it was again, a small smile that Steve couldn't quite place. The one that had no business existing in the version of reality where nothing seemed right and the only person he'd ever belonged to belonged to someone else.

"I'm sure you did," Diana said with a shake of her head, and then a shadow of doubt passed over her face. "Perhaps, it makes sense… Lex Luthor," she added when Steve frowned in confusion, "made quite a few sizable donations to the Museum of Gotham. It wouldn't be that much of a stretch to assume that he and Mr. Quinn were familiar through, ah, art channels."

"Maybe so," Steve shrugged, then glanced around one more time, his face lighting up at the sight of a laptop sitting on the desk. "But we could try to find out for sure."

"How?"

Diana followed him, watching him lift the lid and boot the computer. It was password protected, but as soon as the screen came to life, he plucked a flash drive from the pocket, sticking it into the USB slot, his fingers dancing swiftly over the keyboard.

"What are you doing?" Diana asked, pausing behind his shoulder while Steve put in the necessary codes, bent over the desk.

"Alfred gave me this," he replied easily. "Something to bypass the installed firewall." He glanced at her when the progress bar appeared in the centre of the screen. "If we're lucky, I'll be able to have a look at Mr. Quinn's registered assets, and maybe even his finances. See if he'd purchased anything he shouldn't have in the recent past."

His eyes were glued to the laptop, willing it the hurry up. They were already pushing the time limits. Soon, someone might actually pay attention to someone missing, and he would very much prefer to avoid having to deal with that. Diana, however paid no mind to his manipulations. Her gaze was locked on him, Steve could feel it in the pinpricking of the skin on his neck, a swarm of questions running through her mind almost loud enough for him to hear.

"I'm going to copy it, save it," Steve added, think out loud. "So you could have a look later."

He drummed his fingers impatiently on the mahogany desktop.

"Alfred _gave_ you this," she repeated softly, ignoring his comment.

"Yeah, I mean…" he shrugged, "we were talking… He thought it could be useful, I guess."

She stayed quiet, watching him silently, her eyes full of what he could only describe as wonder.

"What?" Steve blinked.

"You know, every time Barry messes with the computers, he gets kicked out of the Batcave. After the one time when Victor trespassed, Alfred personally reinforced the security system. Arthur is not allowed anywhere near the kitchen, most of the time. There was a small fire once," Diana bit back a smile. "… and you got an encryption program, without asking?"

Bloody hell, she needed to stop looking at him like this. She needed to stop looking at him, period.

"Well, technically, it's more of a decryption program," he corrected her before he could stop himself because it really wasn't _the point_. Christ… "He didn't do it for me, Diana."

"Steve…" she started.

The progress bar finally reached a 100% mark, and the screen lit up, revealing an image of sloping hills of Quinn's desktop, snagging his attention.

"Look, I'm not trying to-"

"No." Her hand landed on his arm, and it took him a second to register an alarm in her voice. To look up and notice her gaze locked on the door.

He pushed up from the desk, and by the time he straightened up, the adrenaline rush was already making his heart beat so fast that it all but threatened to leap out of his throat.

"Someone's coming," she whispered.

 _Shit_.

Steve could hear it now, too – a thin hum of someone's voice, muffled by the door and too quiet to recognize it, but still there nonetheless.

Approaching.

Fast.

"Goddammit," he muttered, his eyes darting around, his mind on fire. There was nowhere to go, not even a balcony to slip out on. Unless they jimmied themselves between the books on the already packed shelves, there was nothing. That, or crawling up the fireplace chimney.

 _Shit, shit, shit!_

Steve crossed the room in two quick strides and yanked the curtains open the way they were when they first came in as Diana closed the laptop shut and turned off the light.

The footsteps were a few feet outside the door now, more a reverberation in the floor than a sound.

He took an involuntary step back, wishing that they could blend into the shadows.

Diana turned to him, her face nothing but a pale spot in the dark to which his eyes were yet to adjust. Steve felt her fingers curl over the sleeve of his jacket, slipping down toward his wrist where his pulse was hammering in a frantic staccato for more than one reason.

"Berlin," she whispered almost soundlessly, a whoosh of breath on his cheek.

 _Huh?_

Her palm cupped over his cheek, her eyes dark and wide and uncertain. Steve heard her swallow, felt her eyes drop to his mouth. And then she bridged the distance between them, pressing her lips to his.

Berlin….

She tasted sweet, of chocolate and wine, which made little sense because she'd had none of them, to his memory, but what was left of his conscious thinking was washed away in an instant when after a moment of hesitation, her arm slipped under his jacket and around his waist, pulling him closer to her. And just like that, Steve no longer cared about whoever was on the other side of that door. About the rest of the world either, for that matter. He kissed her back, desperate and greedy, feeling like a man lost in a desert who had found the water just as he started to think that he was going to die.

His hands slid up her arms, a low growl forming in the back of his throat when a slight shiver ran down her body at his touch. He stumbled backwards, taking a step and then another until his thigh bumped against the desk and he finally had enough leverage to gather Diana to him, hands splayed on her back, curling over the delicate fabric of her dress, the image of what was underneath it so vivid that it took him all of half a second to summon it.

Jesus Christ, now it was all he could think of.

Her fingers pushed into his hair, gripping a fistful of it on the back of his head, and Steve thought that there wasn't a sweeter way to lose the remnants of one's sanity than being kissed like that.

It took him a moment too long to register a sudden brightness around them as the light was turned on – an overhead lamp, too harsh and too merciless. Someone cleared their throat very pointedly.

After another moment, Diana pulled away from him, her breathing ragged and her gaze glazed over. One fist stiff clutched over the lapel of his jacket, she turned to the source of the sound, and Steve did, too, to find Darrell Quinn standing in the doorway, about as surprised to find them where they didn't belong as Steve was by the interruption.

Twenty seconds, as it turned out, was what it took to make one completely derail their reality.

"Ms. Prince?" His brows pulled together in confusion and disapproval. "This area is off limits for the guests."

"Oh," Diana breathed.

"Told you we should have turned left," Steve muttered, tucking a wisp of hair around her ear – an indulgence he couldn't deny himself, and the one he knew he was going to regret for he was already craving more.

Her breath hitched just enough for him to forget about the man standing in the doorway.

"My apologies, Mr. Quinn," Diana smiled, stepping away from Steve, his hands feeling awfully empty without her. "We didn't mean to… Perhaps we should…"

"You should," Quinn nodded. Having shaken off the stupor, he walked over to the desk, unlocked one of the drawers and pulled a ledger out of it. His eyes darted from Diana to Steve. "You're missing all the excitement."

 _No kidding_ , Steve thought, his lips still burning with the taste of her.

"That would be a shame," Diana agreed with a polite smile. She paused – a flicker of hesitation across her features replaced by determination – and went for the kill. "This is a very interesting piece you have here."

He glanced over his shoulder at the painting, his brief puzzlement replaced by recognition.

"A gift from a dear friend," he said vaguely, locking the desk again and gesturing toward to the door with his ledger. "If you would... Ms. Prince. Mr. Trevor."

A brush of her fingers to his hand, and Steve was following her out of the room with Quinn close behind them, locking the door this time.

"Must be some friend," he offered.

"The one with appreciation for beauty," Quinn nodded.

"Surely you're familiar with its history," Diana noted.

"The original – of course, but this is merely a copy. A good one, at that, but…"

"Is that so?" She mused, and gave Steve the tiniest shake of her head when he darted a quizzical look at her. "Would you be willing to part with it, then?" Diana asked, her tone measured, intentionally mild.

"Why would you want a reproduction, Ms. Prince? The Louvre doesn't have much appreciation for them."

"Personal interest," Diana responded. "I've always liked van Huysym's works."

Still, Quinn shook his head. "This one is not for sale, I'm afraid."

Well, there was no surprise there. Steve wasn't sure that he believed Quinn's ignorance, but maybe he really had no idea; maybe whoever convinced him of the nature of the painting did a fine enough job for him not to be bothered by displaying it in his office where anyone could see it. He was primarily a businessman after all, the one with certain fondness for all things beautiful, but there were many a professional there fooled by the skillful forgeries before. Why not the other way around?

Frankly, at this point all Steve could think of was that Quinn didn't call anyone on them. It would hardly be an issue, but he didn't want to stir the trouble and draw any more attention to them.

And that was then Steve realized with stunned clarity that something was missing, something he completely forgot about. He remembered in that moment that the security was the least of their problems, if only because the flash drive with custom-made crack program was still plugged in Quinn's laptop, and that he was going to find it eventually. And once he did, he'd know exactly who left it there, and their attempt to cover it up wouldn't be worth a dime.

Steve whipped his head around, panic rising inside him in hot waves.

If he didn't get it, he was going to compromise not only them, but also Bruce Wayne, seeing as how that stuff had his name all over it. Literally. The man's obsession with having his goddamned logo on everything that he owned was going to get them all killed one day.

The noise of the foyer grew louder.

He needed an excuse to go back. Something. Anything. Maybe he could tell that he dropped something, forgot something-

He felt Diana's hand slip into his, something cold pressing into his palm. A keychain.

"The car," she murmured soundlessly, leaning close to his ear.

Steve met her gaze, and she gave him a small nod, and he wondered if she did, in fact, read his thoughts. He opened his mouth to ask her something, say something, make sure that they were on the same page. Maybe he could jimmy the window open and sneak in that way, if there was no other choice.

She gave his fingers a quick squeeze, and then they reached the lobby, and she was excusing herself and turning toward the bathrooms behind the reception. Quinn paused as if to say something but reconsidered, following Diana with his gaze instead, not suspicious, exactly, but rather concerned nonetheless even though he was doing a damn fine job trying to bite it back. Steve couldn't fault him for it, his own mind also abuzz with the questions, half-formed and chaotic.

Still, the older man smiled when Steve caught up with him, choosing to try and carry on with this show.

"That's a nice lipstick you have, Mr. Trevor," he noted with a chuckle.

Steve's cheeks grew hot as he wiped his lips hastily with the back of his hand.

He mustered a grin. "Still trying to find my colour."

Quinn let out a soft laugh, the tension broken at last. "Well, that shade of crimson is definitely yours."

They parted their ways in the ballroom where Quinn headed for the makeshift podium and Steve paused near the last row of chairs as if looking for a seat before making a beeline for the lobby the moment Quinn turned his back to him, walking briskly past the servers that had left the main room and the security guards in sharp suits hired for the even on the account of the value of the presented objects, their postures so rigid their backs were probably killing them.

His hand gripped the keychain tighter. He glanced once over his shoulder, toward the side corridor that remained empty, praying and hoping against all hope that Diana knew to get the flash drive, that she didn't misunderstand him.

There was a time, a lifetime and a half ago, when he wouldn't doubt her for a second, when there was the kind of understanding between them that made the words all but unnecessary. It was what made them a good team in the first place, a blind trust they were willing to put into one another from the get go. A perfect union, in every sense. And that was why losing her felt like losing a limb, or something even more vital. At times, it felt like he'd lost his heart.

The air was chilly and damp outside, clinging to his skin and crawling under his shirt when he stepped out the doors, making him shiver involuntarily, and the sky was dark and starless above his head. Steve was halfway across the crowded parking lot, trying to spot Bruce's sleek Jaguar among rows and rows of other cars that looked exactly the same – like someone stuffed one into a 3D printer and it spat out a few dozen of them – when the sound that was disturbingly out of place in the night made him pause. Made his heart sink.

Police sirens were wailing in the distance, growing louder with every passing moment.

He stopped short, his eyes glued to the blinking of red lights, fading in and out of sight, undoubtedly heading their way.

There was nothing wrong at the hotel half a minute ago when he left, nothing—

 _Diana_.

He turned on his heel and ran back, nearly slipping on the gravel that kept rolling from beneath his feet.

Steve stopped at the foot of the staircase leading to the entrance, his mind racing.

He needed to get her out of there, and he needed to do it fast, and it also needed to be discreet.

There was another door around the corner that led directly to the kitchen. The knob turned easily when Steve twisted it and yanked it open, sleeping inside. He was greeted by a few puzzled looks of the cooks and servers, however, hey made no attempt to stop him, or ask any questions for that matter.

One of a few valuable lessons that the war had taught him – aside from that people seldom were who they appeared to be – was that the best way to fight chaos was with more chaos.

He rushed into the lobby, heaving a sigh of relief at the sight of a fire alarm mounted on the wall, small and inconspicuous, and so very useful.

He crossed fifteen feet separating him from it in a few quick strides, reaching for it—

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" A sharp demand made Steve snap his head around to see one of the security guards head his way, a wall of determination.

Bloody hell.

"Dammit," Steve muttered under his breath, his fingers closing over the small lever.

"Get away from there!" The man ordered, his bark making several heads turn their way, which was a bad, bad thing.

His hand landed on Steve shoulder, but instead of pulling him back, he pushed him face first into the wall, making the stars explode before Steve's eyes. His disorientation was short-lived though, and the next second he span around, ignoring the ringing in his ears and the dull ache in his cheekbone that was spreading up his skull and making the walls sway around him.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, and he really and truly was, but when his fist rammed into the guard's face there was a flicker of satisfaction to it. A small payback. The man blinked at him in surprise, and then slid quietly to the floor.

His breath laboured – more from adrenaline than exertion, Steve watched him collapse to the thick carpet. And then he pulled the lever.

The siren broke out, so loud it was like something cut through his eardrums, making him wince, his hands reaching instinctively to cover his ears, and his head all but exploding.

One moment, and then a concerned murmur of voices added to it, growing louder and more frantic. Questions and fears were spilling out, hanging heavily in the air. Another moment, and the people started to trickle toward the door, hurried steps and loud whispers, looking around in search of the source of danger while the staff tried to nip the outbreak of panic in the bud, their alarmed expressions fueling the confusion.

Steve pushed through the crowd, moving like a salmon up the stream, his shoulders bumping against the shoulders of those who were trying to get out into the street. His knees nearly buckled when he finally spotted Diana, her gaze skimming over the mass of bodies as she moved with them. It stilled when it locked with Steve's.

His hand closed around hers when she reached him, more for the sake of not getting separated that anything else, and he tugged her toward the exit.

"What's going on?" She asked. "The alarm-"

"It was me," Steve mouthed, careful not to be overheard. "Come on." Once outside, he didn't pause to join on the puzzled conversations and led her straight toward the car near the rear exit instead.

"What's going on?" Diana looked around, searching for the source of distress. "The police…"

He let go of her hand and passed the key back to her. A flash drive landed on his palm in return.

"Thank you," he murmured. "There must've been some kind of protection on Quinn's laptop. It triggered the distress signal when I tried to breach it." He let out a breath, his chest still heaving. "I think."

The police car came to a screeching halt near the entrance, escalating the growing distress of the lodgers, some of them in bathing robes, murmuring animatedly as they waited to see the resolution. For a brief second, Steve thought that he saw a mop of Darrell Quinn's white hair swimming among the spectators on the sidewalk, but this was not something he had time to ponder.

"What happened to your face?" Diana frowned. She lifted her hand, reaching for his cheekbone, but paused with her fingers an inch away from his skin, and lowered it again.

Steve winced. "Collateral damage. Let's get out of here." He glanced around them, but they hardly stood out among nearly a hundred people hurrying toward their vehicles. "Is the painting really a copy?"

"No, it is the original," she shook her head. "I'm sure."

He nodded. "So, what's now?"

"I'll buy it."

The gravel crunched under their shoes as they walked. He finally remembered to stuff the flash drive into the pocket of his pants, anxious to know what was on it now. There was something about Quinn's voice that bothered him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, turning their brief conversation this way and that in his head like it was a puzzle and maybe the picture would fall into place if only he looked at in at a different angle.

"But Quinn said it wasn't for sale," he reminded her, thinking out loud more than anything.

Diana rounded someone's silver BMW. "Everything is for sale if you offer the right price."

Steve quirked an eyebrow at her.

"I could contact one of the organizations taking care of the stolen art, here in the States or in Europe, and start an investigation," she explained. "Or I could do it faster and simply return it where it belongs."

Her felt his mouth tug up at the corners. This was here right here, everything she ever stood for. Everything that made this world a better place. Everything that used to make him want to be a better person.

"You do know that no one else in this whole world would ever do that, right?" Steve asked quietly.

"I could name a person or two," she countered with a small smile, meeting his eyes in the dim light of the street lamps lining the parking lot, and he smiled back. Because—

Because even after all this time, she still believe in him even though he stopped believing in himself a long time ago.

Would she still feel the same way if she knew the whole truth about him? If she knew about the things that Steve chose to keep to himself for fear of losing her? A liar, a murderer… If only she knew how close her words hit to home that day in the port, how often he wished he wasn't a damn coward, too scared of admitting the truth even to himself. All he ever wanted was to give her the world, and in the end, it turned out that the best thing he _could_ do was give her the world without him in it.

That was the one thing that she deserved more than anything.

Steve looked away from her.

He wondered how long he was going to remember the way her hand fit in his, his skin missing her touch already.

Diana pressed the button to unlock the car, the headlights blinked at them in impassive greeting.

And the next thing he remembered was being pushed in the chest by a wall of heat. His fingers curled around her wrist. One moment, all he could see was impossible brightness of the explosion before them. And then everything went black.

 **To be continued...**

* * *

 **A/N:** Thoughts?


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note** : It's been a while, I know, I've been dealing with some personal stuff. I do hope you guys are excited about the soon-to-begin filming of the second film, and in the meantime - please dig in!

* * *

 _Gotham, 2017_

"A leaking gas tank, my ass," Bruce muttered under his breath as he hung up his phone, his jaw set tight and frustration radiating off of him in waves.

For a moment, Steve was certain that he would chuck it against the wall in frustration. Instead, Bruce stuffed it angrily into the pocket of his pants, his expression disgusted and dark.

"They had to come up with something," Clark said, not sounding very surprised, even though his brows were creased ever so slightly. "Something that the public would buy. It's not like the cars blow up on the streets of Metropolis every night."

"How does that help?" Bruce demanded and shook his head. He turned to Diana. "Are you okay?"

"Never better, thanks for asking," Steve replied from where he was sitting on the couch with his head tipped back as the late afternoon sun spilling through the glass wall, bathing the room in warm light that did nothing for his raging headache.

Between a sizeable bruise on his shoulder, a black eye, and a cut on his forehead where his head met the pavement, he could pinpoint at least a hundred spots on his body that weren't supposed to hurt but did. Which, admittedly, was a small price for not being _inside_ the car when it was torn to pieces and went up in flames, but he decided to hold off his gratitude for when he could think straight without feeling like he was on the verge of throwing up with every breath.

The 'walking MRI' Cyborg had already told him that he had a concussion, and suspecting it somehow felt slightly less nauseating – no pun intended – than knowing it for a fact. Wasn't the first time. Wasn't the worst thing that had happened to him. Steve still hated it with a passion.

Bruce ignored him, his gaze barely leaving Diana ever since they walked through the door several hours earlier after Clark came to pick them up and drive them back to Gotham, for lack of other options.

"If it wasn't a leaking tank, then what was it?" Barry asked, his eyes darting from Diana to Bruce to Clark to Steve, eager and inquisitive as Victor, Arthur and Alfred watched them solemnly.

"Perhaps, we've walked into something we should've stayed away from," Steve answered, rubbing his eyes, when the others remained silent.

"No shit," Bruce muttered.

"They could've been after you," Barry told him with a shrug.

"Then it would've exploded in my backyard," Bruce countered rather unkindly.

"Bruce," Diana started with a warning, but he shook his head and walked out of the room without another word as if being around them all was too much to bear.

She followed him to his study, pausing in the doorway, anger simmering beneath her skin.

"Are you done?" She asked coolly.

"Are _you_ done, Diana?"

"If this is about the car-"

"It's not about the car," Bruce interjected. He strode over to the liquor cart and poured himself a generous drink, the line of his shoulders stiff and painful to even look at. "I don't care about the car. _You_ could have died."

Diana folded her arms over her chest. "I seriously doubt it."

"You know better than to be so dismissive about that," he said. "If you were ten feet closer. If you were inside the car. If your boyfriend is so brilliant, should he have seen it coming?"

Her mouth dropped. "You're unbelievable. Steve was the one who got hurt, and you have the audacity to keep acting like it was all his fault. Do you even hear yourself?"

He took a sip, winced as it burned its way down his throat, and finally turned to her. "And what happens when it's not a Jaguar that's at stake but something bigger?"

Her lips pursed into a thin line. "If you want to say something to me, just say it."

"The last time I did, you punched me into a wall," he reminded her.

The memory flared up in her mind the way she'd rather it didn't, hot and furious. "I thought you were done rubbing my loss in my face."

Bruce snickered, his gaze hard. "Is it really a loss when someone doesn't want to be found?"

"This is none of your business, Bruce." Her voice grew cold, bordering on dangerous.

"It was none of my business when the team wasn't involved," he objected. "Tell me, if the sky starts falling down, who are you going to help – the world or Steve Trevor? Who are you going to save when you can't save everyone?"

She stared at him, properly angry and disbelieving. "Are you questioning my ability to make the right decisions for the team?"

"I'm saying that there's no knowing what you'll sacrifice for the man who doesn't even want to be here," he said, his eyes never leaving hers, throwing a dare at her. " _You_ didn't want him here, either. What changed?"

She stepped toward him, and he tensed visibly but didn't move, watching her approach until there was no space left between them.

"And you did," Diana reminded him, each word measured but her voice quivering ever so slightly with barely contained rage nonetheless. "What changed for you?"

"We all make mistakes," Bruce responded. "Ask your Captain Trevor. I bet he's got a few under his belt."

The implication felt like a slap.

"It's not about the team, is it?" She asked quietly, having to put a great deal of effort into not lashing out at him, somewhat certain that it was exactly what he was waiting for. "It's about you and me."

"Is _he_ going to risk his life for yours? After walking away from you?" Bruce watched her eyes grow dark. "I'm not the one who did that. And I'm also not the one who spent decades looking for a _picture_. Tell me, whose judgement is clouded here."

"Is this what you really think?"

His jaw clenched. "How long are you going to hold on to something that's not there? That hasn't been there for at least half a century? You can't possibly still be-"

"Don't," she stopped him. "Don't say something that we won't be able to walk away from."

"You mean the truth?" He snickered.

And just like that, they were dangerously close to the line that neither could afford to cross if they wanted their partnership to survive, one way or another.

"I understand your concerns about the League, and I can assure you that I would never do anything to put any of them in danger. But this? This is my life. Stay out of it, Bruce," Diana said coldly in a voice that allowed no room for argument.

He wasn't scared of her, never had been, and in the past, she took it for standing on equal ground – something that she appreciated more than anything else in the world where she was either too much as a hero, or occasionally not enough as a woman. But right now she wished that he was. Wished that he knew better that to keep pushing her boundaries because there was only so far he could go before there was no coming back for both of them.

A knock on the door burst the ice bubble of tension between them.

"Perhaps… tea is not the best idea," Alfred noted from the doorway, his gaze shifting between the two of them.

"Perhaps not," Bruce finished his drink in one gulp and put the glass down on the table so forcefully that it made the pens rattle in the holder and stepped away from her without so much as a parting glance, which, quite frankly, she was grateful for.

When he left, choosing to take the stairs to the Batcave rather than wait all of three seconds for the elevator, Diana let out a long breath and rubbed the corners of her eyes.

"You know, I've been through with making excuses for him for a very long time now," Alfred spoke, catching her by surprise. Diana was certain he'd left already. "And if you walk out of this house right now and never come back, I won't blame you."

She raised her eyes to him. "But?"

Alfred looked past her at the lake beyond the glass wall. "Master Wayne is scared of change more than anything. We all have our own kryptonite, Ms. Prince. We all do and say things we shouldn't when we're scared, and Master Wayne has had a bad track record with losing people he cares about."

"I care about him too, Alfred, but I can't give him what he wants," she said softly.

The feeling of loss was suddenly so overwhelming that she could barely breathe. There was no Steve anymore, his presence but a ghost of what they used to have. Her friendship with Bruce was splitting at the seams because, she was starting to realize, there was no common ground for them here, in this situation. If by any chance the League fell apart, for whatever reason, it would be like having her world knocked off balance once more, and she wondered how many times she could raise from every such fall.

"I know, and he knows it too." Alfred said, his expression softening. "But knowing and accepting are two different things. The latter takes time." He paused, and then added, "Captain Trevor is a good man and he obviously cares for you deeply."

Diana shook her head. "It's been over between us for a very long time."

"Has it, though?" He smiled, a little sad, a little wistful. "If it was, you wouldn't care about what Master Wayne thinks." He hesitated before asking, "May I tell you something?"

She nodded.

"In that woman's office a few weeks ago, when Captain Trevor walked in… there was a moment when your face lit up like nothing I've ever seen," he said. "I believe that the things between you are complicated, but over is not the word I'd use. It is none of my business, Ms. Prince, but if you'll allow me—if he didn't want to be here, I'm certain that he'd have left a long time ago."

She didn't saying anything, just let his words wash over her.

Alfred checked his watch.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I might want to start dinner."

"Alfred," Diana called after him. He turned to her. "Thank you."

When she returned to the lounge, Clark was the only one there, messing with the arrangement of china figurines on the chest by the wall, probably because Bruce didn't appreciate people touching them.

"Where is everyone?" Diana asked.

Clark looked up, leaving the decorations alone. "Steve went to nurse his concussion hoping, and I quote here, that it will kill him before the nausea does." He smiled. "The rest of them decided to get out of the crossfire."

"Bruce was upset," she noted, trying and mostly failing to keep the edge out of her voice.

"He'll get over it," Clark hummed. He studied her. "Are you okay?" And added when a silent question appeared in her eyes, "I tried to ask Lois but there's a girl code apparently, and breaking it is the worst crime of all."

She smiled. "Lois is a very good friend."

"And you're good at doing this," he countered.

"What?"

"Deflecting."

Diana shook her head. "Only because I don't know what to say."

"How about starting from the beginning?" He offered, not prying but giving her an opening that she could take if she ever chose to do so.

"It's a very long story," she admitted.

"The middle is fine."

"I don't know where that is."

Clark's lips quirked. "What about the end?"

Diana looked away, studying the bookshelf and the rows of volumes on it because it was easier than to look in Clark's eye and see the things she wasn't ready to deal with. "Bruce thinks I can't be objective when Steve is involved."

"Bruce thinks many things, it doesn't make them true," Clark shrugged dismissively. "What matters is what you think, Diana."

She turned to him, searching his face although she wasn't quite sure what for. "When the car exploded," she said at last, "Steve tried to shield me. He knows better than anyone in this world that I am the last person to ever need it, and he still—" she bit her lip. "Because it's what he does. It's what he is."

"We all do dumb things on impulse," Clarks agreed, and she laughed, feeling the tension leave her body.

Diana loved that about Clark, the easiness to him that made her feel lighter. He knew better than the rest of them what it was like to be different, if only because it was the only thing they both had ever known. Would she have missed being like everyone else if she knew what it was like?

As for Clark, she wondered sometimes if he was the same person now as before his death, if there was any big revelation to getting a second chance to do things right and fix the mistakes, but she didn't know how to ask, fearful of being intrusive.

"Steve seems like a great guy," he added when she didn't speak. "And smart. He knows just about everything there is to know about the jets. And mechanics. And physics."

"He was a pilot in the Great War," Diana explained. "Not so much afterwards, though. Not after…" She trailed off, the words jamming themselves in her throat. There were, perhaps, losses bigger than time, things that one couldn't get over no matter how much of it had passed. "There was an accident."

Which was one way to put it.

She still dreamed of his plane soaring up into the ink-black sky, the only hope they all had taking away the dreams she had managed to weave the night before. She still woke up in the middle of the night with such emptiness inside of her that her whole body ached. It was always one or the other – save the one person she held most dear, or millions of others. How could they have chosen otherwise? But even after he came back to her, after she'd found him again, the fear remained. The very same one that lived with her still. Sometimes, it felt like she kept losing him every day since the moment they met, even after he stopped being hers.

Clark was watching her, waiting, and it occurred to Diana then that in a century, Steve was the only person who ever knew the whole story, the only one who saw the real her. Before she was the savior and the beacon, as Bruce called her once. She came close to sharing it once, a long time ago, but the weight of the truth seemed like too high a price to pay for the promises she couldn't make and knew they both wouldn't keep. It didn't seem fair, and it also felt odd, too. Too personal to let someone else in.

She wasn't ready. Not then and not now, but Clark was there, and he was willing to listen, and of them all, he was the one who could truly understand because there was no way out for them both. They chose to live fully in this world over staying in the shadows, and there was no knowing if it was the right decision or not, except for the sense of belonging that it gave them, however frail it felt at times.

And so she gave him the abridged version, bare facts devoid of feelings and everything that used to make her blood flow faster. Funny how you could distill a hundred of years to a few sentences that sounded detached, almost flat, when in reality the story behind them was blooming and breathing, alive in its own way.

Clark stayed quiet when she finished, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window unseeingly, seemingly not noticing a picket fence of forest several hundred yards away from the house and a stretch of grass leading toward it.

"His heart beats faster when he looks at you," he said at last. "Or when he hears your voice." He turned to Diana. "I'm not—I wasn't eavesdropping, but sometimes I can't help it," his smile was sheepish, apologetic, although not pitying as she feared.

She dropped her gaze, remembering suddenly that she never even asked Steve if maybe he was with someone else now. If maybe all of this was a minor kink in his life.

"I'm not the one who left him," she said softly.

"You know, I wasn't really dead," he started, faltering, trying to find the words, to pull his thoughts together. "It was like sleeping, only I couldn't wake up. Couldn't remember myself either. Like my life force was alive in its purest form." Clark shook his head, uncertain if he was making any sense and there was something akin awe in his voice over having felt something so profoundly other-earthly. "I was dreaming, of the things I couldn't have but wanted so desperately." His face grew somber. "I remember wanting to live more than anything, even though I didn't quite know what it meant. I still remember that feeling so clearly sometimes."

Diana's brows knitted together as she took in his story.

"All I'm saying is," he finished when her expression remained puzzled, "that some things are not always what they seem on the surface."

"He knew where to find me," she whispered, old hurt creeping into her voice.

"People change, circumstances change. Sometimes you need to step away from something to see the full picture, and sometimes taking that step forward again is the hardest thing." Clark shrugged, and she knew that it was a very simple truth that was often impossible to accept. Did he know that Lois said almost the exact same thing? "I'm not taking any sides, Diana, and if I were, I'd take yours. You're my friend. As is it, though, this whole situation has nothing to do with me, but… I can't imagine a scenario in which a man whose pulse goes crazy around you would want to shield someone else from a bomb. I bet he wouldn't try to shield me."

"You don't need it," she told him.

"Not the point."

"You don't know Steve," she added, feeling warmth blossom in her stomach. "He might have done it still."

He smiled and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pants. "You know him well enough to have this argument."

She had never felt more cornered even though she had no idea what he had cornered her into. Believing, perhaps. Back to square one because wasn't that where it all started in the first place? She believed in saving the world, enough to leave Themyscira with Steve, and he believed in her.

A very unsavoury curse appeared on the tip of her tongue. She clenched her jaw to keep it from slipping out.

In the end, Clark shook his head, chuckling. "Wanna come over for dinner sometime this week?" He asked, stirring their conversation back towards neutral ground. "I'm on cooking duty. We could have a Taco Thursday or something. I hear the food is in short supply here. At least when Barry is around." Which was never a secret.

"I think it's called Taco Tuesday."

"Who cares?" He chuckled. "I could even go big and leave you and Lois alone with bottle of wine to talk about everything that I'm genetically unable to understand."

Diana laughed. "Don't sell yourself short, Clark."

"So, what do you think?"

"It sounds good," she promised. "Very good. Thank you. I'll let you know."

He nodded, then glanced toward the hallway, and back at her. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yes," she said. Somehow. Someday. "I am."

xoox

He hated bloody concussions, Steve thought, lying sprawled on his bed like a starfish and feeling the room sway around him. He squeezed his eyes shut but it didn't help. If nothing else, his stomach twisted again, and he snapped them wide open, choosing to focus on the chandelier over his head the way sailors were advised to focus on the horizon line to reduce sea sickness.

It didn't help.

Now, broken bones he could understand but a slightly bruised brain was an awful inconvenience that didn't even hurt, strictly speaking. It was merely a nuisance that was a pain to deal with.

Last night in Metropolis, he came to with his head cradled in Diana's hands and the acrid smell of burning plastic and paint, and the heat from the fire licking at his skin. Her face hovering over his was pale, her eyes wide and frightened, glistening in the light of raging flames.

It reminded him, oddly, of the day she pulled him out of the water on Themyscira in what felt like a different lifetime now, so maybe there was some truth to how history tended to repeat itself in the strangest ways. Except it was dark, and cold, and Diana's expression was a little panicked instead of curious. The warmth of her touch to his cheeks made him shiver.

"Steve." She smiled, and it was watery and weak, and he loved it more than anything.

They were far enough away from the car to avoid being hurt, however after getting unnecessarily familiar with the wall earlier, his skull did not appreciate being smacked into the asphalt. It was perhaps a miracle that he ended up with a mild concussion and not a brain hemorrhage, even if it was a total bitch nonetheless.

Steve remembered the sirens of the firetrucks, the demands of the police for everyone to stay back. Remembered Diana hauling him up to his feet and the earth swaying a little beneath him as she wrapped her arm around his waist and put her hand on his shoulder, the fire reflecting in her eyes when he looked at her. Remembered needing to throw up but managing to avoid it, somehow, even though the blinking lights and the wailing around them was making his stomach coil. She smelled good, that was the one thing that anchored itself clearly in Steve's mind, and felt reassuringly warm standing near him in the chilly night.

She had to call Clark to ask him to come and get them before texting Bruce or someone else from the League to tell them what happened. Bruce called her when they were on the way back to Gotham, with Steve sprawled in the back on Clark's car, trying really hard not to die as the mouth of all headaches tried to pound its way out of his skull. He couldn't hear what she was saying, only the sound of her voice in the periphery of his attention as they swam in and out of headlights on the highway.

He remembered her reaching between the seats to squeeze his hand, briefly. Or maybe he dreamed it, seeing as how the world felt soft around the edges, fading out at times.

Steve rubbed his forehead as if it could chase the headache away and winced. He'd been awake for close to 30 hours now, exhausted beyond comprehension, but he felt too wired to sleep. He pushed up to sit with a grimace and reached for the suit jacket hanging on the back of the chair. Found the flash drive and plugged it into his laptop.

A knock on the door startled him, and he looked up just as the door opened a crack, and then wider when Alfred saw him sitting at the desk.

"Thought you might appreciate this," he said, setting a cup of tea and a glass of water before Steve and then pulling a bottle of Tylenol out of the pocket of his vest and placing it next to them.

"You're a marvel, Alfred," Steve smiled weakly, reaching for the pills.

"I'll put it on my resume," Alfred noted. "Shouldn't you be resting, Captain?" He asked, his gaze flickering briefly toward the laptop.

"Can't," Steve shook his head. "I don't think I'm supposed to, either. Besides…" He gestured vaguely toward the laptop. "Thanks for that program, by the way."

"Did you find anything?"

"Not sure yet," Steve admitted. "Diana might work it out, though. I think. I'm not quite sure what we were after, to be honest. The art… it's her domain, not mine."

A shadow passed over Alfred's face. "Can I ask you something, Captain?"

"Sure." Steve nodded, and decided to never ever do that again.

Alfred's frown deepened. "Do you have any idea what happened there?"

"No. Your guess is as good as mine." He paused. "But it wasn't a gas tank."

The older man nodded. "Of course, not." His jaw worked for a moment as if he was going to add something else, but reconsidered the last moment. "Well, you should get some rest, Captain," he said, turning to leave. "It will do you good."

"Thank you," Steve called after him.

The idea seemed ludicrous, though. Somehow, the adrenaline rush was still making his hands shake just a little – the feeling all too familiar to brush it off like it was nothing. He shook two Tylenol pills out of a bottle and washed them down with water before turning back to the screen. He tried to remember the people they saw, the people they talked to, but the previous night was a blur in his head.

Maybe later, when the fog had lifted, he'd be able to remember something useful.

Steve rubbed his eyes and let out a weary sigh.

It took him a good couple of hours to go through every file on the flash drive, but most of them meant nothing to him. They might have as well been in Swahili so foreign the legalese looked to him. There were many of them though, some - he figured – were transaction records, others looked like assessment reports but the items, if they were about art pieces at all, were coded. The numbers and figures might be referring to anything. For all Steve knew, this was all useless.

He knew that Diana would pursue the retrieval of the painting, but chances were that it would be the only thing to come out of their trip.

He closed all windows, feeling a new kind of headache blossoming behind his eyes, the one that was rooted in frustration, and stood up. There was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind, a thought he didn't quite seem to grasp, yet unable shake it off, either.

That, or maybe it was an exhaustion- and concussion-induced paranoia.

He needed to give the flash drive to Diana. She would know what to make of it, perhaps. This was her world after all, not his.

Steve grimaced a little. He'd spent the past few hours trying not to think of her going after Bruce this afternoon. Trying not to think of kissing her in Darrell Quinn's office last night, the taste of her so imprinted on his mouth he could feel it even now. Did she tell Bruce Wayne about it? Or about him seeing her half-naked in Lois's apartment? Christ, he just needed to give the man another reason to dislike him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly too tired to care. It wasn't personal, he knew that. None of that was. She only took him with her for lack of better options. There was no use in pretending otherwise.

Steve crossed the room and yanked the door open to go find Diana—

-only to see her standing on the other side, about to knock.

She lowered her hand and offered him a hesitant smile. "Hi."

"Hey," he echoed, caught suddenly off guard.

She had showered and changed since the last time he saw her. He could smell something sweet on her, and her hair was still slightly damp and falling down her shoulders in heavy coils. Could she hear his heart beating? All this time, and he never learned how to be around her without feeling like he could hardly breathe.

"Is… everything okay?" His brows knitted together as he braced himself for the crisis du jour, unable to think of any other reason for her appearance.

"Yes. Yes, it is," Diana assured him. "I just… I wanted to see if you were okay."

"Oh." Speak of unexpected. "I'm good." He nodded for emphasis and regretted it immediately. Again. "Alfred gave me something for the… uh, headache. So I'm… fine. Great. Never better."

"Never?" Her eyebrow arched, a tiny smile making its return.

Steve felt the tension seep out of his body.

"Okay, maybe not never," he admitted after a moment.

It wasn't Diana's fault that he was here, that he had no idea what he was doing. That he couldn't quite cope with the fact that she'd moved on when he very obviously hadn't. She didn't ask for it and he couldn't continue punishing her for trying to live her life – something that he wanted her to do more than anything.

Steve cleared his throat. "I was actually—I was going to find you."

"Me?" She looked surprised.

In the quiet hallway, their voices sounded oddly loud and out of place and he couldn't help but drop his a notch. For a moment, he watched the thin fabric of her shirt move as she breathed, which got him thinking about her chest rising and falling against his as she kissed him. Which got him thinking—

He really needed that sleep.

"Yeah, I-" Steve practically shoved the flash drive into her hand. "I wanted to give you this." God bless conversation pieces. "Thought maybe what's on it would make more sense to you." He cleared his throat again and wondered if she was going to ask whether he also had a cold in addition to a concussion. God help him…

Diana took it, her forehead creasing thoughtfully. "Did you find anything?" She asked.

"I wasn't really sure what to look for," he said, a hesitant frown appearing between his brows.

"What is it, Steve?"

"Nothing, probably," he shook his head. "I don't know." He let out a breath. "LexCorp was mentioned quite a few times, but it might not mean anything. Some of the documents have no time stamp on them so it's hard to tell how far back they date. And… you said that Lex Luthor was involved with charities and art and whatnot."

Her fingers closed around it. "Thank you. I will have a look."

"Thank you," he said. "For getting it."

She nodded. "Of course." Her eyes rose to the band aid covering the cut on his forehead, just below the hairline. "Are you sure you don't need to go to the hospital?"

She'd asked him that already. And so did Clark, and so did Alfred. And Barry, whose exact words were _Dude, this is so sick! Are you gonna die?_ And it did sound like admiration of sorts but Steve wasn't entirely sure.

"Been worse," he shrugged dismissively.

"I seem to remember that," she breathed.

"They can't tell me anything I don't already know," he added.

She nodded again.

The pause settled between them, not uncomfortable but very present. His fingers itched to rake through her hair, he wanted to taste her again.

Bruce appeared at the end of the hallway, pausing when he spotted them, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set tautly. Looking past Diana's shoulder, Steve held his gaze, lips pursed tight, reminded once again that he was a barely wanted guest here, having no claim on the woman before him.

She had to have told him about the kiss, and everything else. Diana was anything but dishonest. And now the Batman was probably after his head.

Great.

Not that he cared. He wasn't trying to—he wouldn't-

After a second, Bruce stepped into his bedroom, and Steve let out a shuddered breath.

"Steve?" A concerned frown was back on Diana's face as she watched him, her head tilted quizzically. She glanced over her shoulder, but the hallway was empty and dark.

He dragged his gaze back to hers, suddenly very aware of how close she was. It took all of his willpower not to take a step back, knowing that she'd see right through it, and that she'd be hurt, and she was not to blame for his petty jealousy that he had no right to own.

"Sorry," he muttered, running a hand over his hair. "I'm a bit tired, I guess. It's been a long day… _two_ days, actually. Maybe we need to sleep."

 _Not 'we' together_. Did she hear it that way? _Just stop talking_.

His face flushed, the heat creeping up his neck. What the hell was his problem? It was entirely and utterly unfair that while the other people living here possessed super strength or super speed or super everything, his one and only superpower seemed to be ending up with his foot in his mouth with enviable regularity. He needed to get the hell out of this house.

How did she manage to move on? And why couldn't he?

Steve grimaced a little, but Diana didn't seem at all concerned about his linguistic fails.

"Of course." She paused. "And if you need anything…"

"Yeah, thanks. So I'll probably…" He wasn't sure where he was going with this while he tried not to think of where Diana was going to spend the next undefined period of time. Bruce's room, most likely. Now that definitely wasn't a mental image he needed. "Nothing some rest won't fix."

Christ, he sounded like a bumper sticker.

"Okay, well…"

"Goodnight, Diana," he breathed, stepping back into his room.

"Goodnight," she echoed softly – the last thing he heard as he closed the door.

xoox

The only other picture that Diana had of Steve, aside from the prized photograph taken in Veld in 1918 that was too fragile for travel and that stayed indefinitely in Paris, was a snapshot taken by a street photographer in Florence on a gloomy day in the late 1940's during their trip to Italy.

The wind was harsh and unforgiving, tugging at their hair and clothes, turning their cheeks pink. The day was promising more rain as they walked up the narrow streets to Piazzale Michelangelo overlooking the expanse of the city, hands clasped together and fingers entwined for warmth and comfort. There, among the replicas of works of the famous sculptor, Steve took pity on the lone photographer who chose the wrong time to come looking for clientele, shivering in the too-thin coat.

On the photo, they were supposed to be looking at the camera, frozen near the railing running in semi-circle around the small, picturesque square. However, just as the shutter went off, a flock of birds took off into the sky, startled by something, and Diana turned after them, distracted, leaving them with the image of her with her face upturned to the birds soaring toward the low grey clouds and Steve looking at her with a small, tender smile, his expression wondrous. Like he couldn't believe that the moment they shared was real.

She remembered that trip with striking clarity. Not the places they had visited or the things they had seen – even though she fell in love with the Pantheon and decided that she could wander endless halls of museums for hours on end, never tiring of them – so much as the feeling of deep, infinite contentment. Lazy mornings and slow days, the smell of the ocean and cries of seagulls, cold hands and the taste of bitter coffee. Steve's laughter. Kisses that stole their breaths away. She had never been happier.

Diana forgot all about this photograph. She assumed that Steve had it. After all, back then it seemed to her that they didn't need to bottle up those moments for later; that they would have each other for as long as they lived. She found it again in one of Steve's books when she was packing for London to start her job at the British Museum.

It was old and faded now, frayed a little around the edges from being carried in her books or purses for close to half a century, the grey sky above their heads yellowed from time. And yet she was still looking up with the same marvelous expression, and Steve was still gazing at her like she was the finest creation ever to exist.

Alone in her room, she pulled it out. Her finger traced his form, frozen in time.

It had been a while since she'd looked at it, choosing not to cut the old wounds open just as they started to scar. The solace of owning it was enough.

Studying it now, she tried to read their faces, see beyond the easy smiles, beyond the simplicity of the moment. Could they have known back then how this story was going to end? She wanted him gone now, her chest caving in every time he'd look away from her, or step out of her way as if he was scared to touch her for fear of being burned. And yet she couldn't bear the thought of it, of the final goodbye. There was never supposed to be one.

These days, she could no longer read him as easily as she used to before, and she was wondering now if she simply forgot how to, or if Steve grew a whole new armour to keep her away. He fit, though. He fit with the League; everyone– maybe short of Bruce – was fascinated by him. Even Arthur who was the hardest one to impress. Even Alfred whose loyalty to Bruce always dictated his allegiances.

He fit in her life, too. In small ways. She liked hearing the sound of his voice in the kitchen talking to Alfred or bickering half-heartedly with Barry, or humming something under his breath, or deflecting Victor's quips. It was easy and familiar, and her heart ached for more. For his smile that didn't feel plastic, for the easy conversations they used to have without dancing around the words that never seemed quite right anymore.

She missed kissing him the way she did last night, without thinking, without caring. Missed having his hands on her body, sure and possessive in just the way she liked, knowing exactly where to touch her. Missed having what they had, and a part of her wanted nothing more than to crawl into his arms and make him promise her over and over again that he would never leave her.

She wanted their dreams back, but she didn't want to get hurt anymore.

Diana sighed and put the photograph away. It wasn't even Steve's choice to be here, Bruce was right about that. If it wasn't for Amanda Waller, he wouldn't be, and that seemed like a flimsy bridge to put her heart on. He'd made his decision nearly 70 years ago. She only wished she knew how to live with it.

She booted her laptop and plugged the flash drive into it.

Three folders that copied from Quinn's laptop were financial statements and income forms, some balance sheets regarding the hotel, a few letters she dismissed because they had nothing to do with his charity work or art collection. Among them were appraisal reports and purchase forms but cracking the codes that stood for individual items – a rather common practice used on the off-chance that they fall into wrong hands – might take some time.

She rubbed her forehead, feeling exhaustion of the day catch up with her as the adrenaline rush that carried her through the past twelve hours dissolved into nothing.

And then her gaze snatched a familiar name from the list before her. Diana's brows pulled together, frustration rising inside of her in tidal waves.

She pushed up to stand, pacing the room as she tried to fit the pieces of puzzle together, albeit with little success.

For that, she was going to need something stronger than Google.

She grabbed her phone, pushing a speed-dial button as she headed out of the door and toward the elevator to the Batcave.

Lois picked up after the second ring.

"Hi," Diana breathed into the receiver, prepared for the onslaught of questions to pour into her ear. And smiled when it did. "Yes, I'm fine. We're fine, thank you." She looked around the quiet house, her eyes darting toward the end of the hallway and the door to Steve's room but she looked away just as quickly. "You have a minute?"

xoox

 _Themyscira, 1945_

 _In the pale moonlight, the sand looked silver and sort, melting into the ocean as they made their way down the path leading from the cliffs. It was a different beach, not the one where Diana had dragged him out of the water and so many of her sisters lost their lives. This one was on the other side of the island, a quiet bay where the waves were tame and the currents less vicious._

 _"What do you think?" Diana asked, letting go of his hand as they stepped onto the sand._

 _Steve watched her chest rise as she inhaled the fresh, cool air._

 _He glanced up at the sky dotted with brilliant stars, so much brighter here than he'd ever seen, framing the halo of the half-moon beaconing them to the horizon._

 _"Depends," he said, revelling in the breeze coming from the sea after a stifling hot day. "What do you have in mind?"_

 _Without a word, Diana reached down to untie the straps of her sandals that were snaking up her calves and dropped them to the sand. He glanced at him over her shoulder and undid the clasps that held her armour in place._

 _Steve's mouth went dry._

 _"You can't-" he started hoarsely, his gaze drawn momentarily to the cliffs above them, certain that he was about to see the night guards there, but the white rocks remained empty, towering silently over them._

 _When he turned to Diana, her armour was already lying on top of her sandals. She wasn't looking at him, but Steve had a distinct suspicion that she took special care of shimming out of her undergarment for his benefit as his eyes followed the lines of her lithe body._

 _"Yeah, I guess you can do that…" he mumbled, watching thin fabric fall to her feet._

 _She raised her eyes to meet his, and he swallowed soundly, allowing his gaze to dip down her body before he lifted it to hers again, all to find a wicked smile and every promise he'd ever want to see painted across her face._

 _Desire crazed through him like a strike of lightning, his mouth opening to protest when she turned around and started toward the water. She paused when her toes touched the waves and glanced over her shoulder._

 _"Steve?"_

 _He took a breath and willed a smile into existence._

 _"I don't have my swimwear on me."_

 _She grinned. "Good thing you don't need it."_

 _He watched her wander into the ocean, and by the time the water reached her thighs, he was hopping on a spot as he tried to pull his shoes off, far less graceful that Diana could ever be. She never once looked back, assuming that he would follow, and Steve had no intention to prove her wrong. He pulled off his shirt, hesitating for another moment before parting with the rest of his clothes, unable to stop glancing at the cliffs as if half expecting someone to shoot an arrow at him before he so much as touched the Queen's daughter._

 _His indecisiveness was short lived, though. If that was how he was going to die, then so be it. He couldn't think of a better way to go._

 _The water was pleasantly cool, rising goosebumps along his skin as he waded into it, allowing it to hug his ankles, his claves, his thighs. In the blackness all around them, not disturbed by the city lights he was so used to, it looked like the sea was melting into the sky. The waves enveloped his chest and Steve pushed away from the sandy bottom, allowing them to cradle his body._

 _"Diana?" He looked around, but saw nothing but the gentle sway of the ocean. "Diana!" The only sounds around him were the whisper of the trees up on the cliffs and the lapping of the waves against the shore. "Come on…." He muttered._

 _She appeared out of the water right before him, startling him and making his heart slam against his ribcage. He didn't move though, his eyes glued to hers. She smiled and smoothed her hands over her hair, slicking it back from her face. With the droplets glistening on her eyelashes and that self-indulgent smile that he knew so well, she looked every bit the goddess that she was. So beautiful it almost hurt._

 _"Feels good, yes?" She asked, tilting her head just the slightest bit and placing her hands on his shoulders to keep them close._

 _"Mm-hm," Steve hummed noncommittally._

 _She laughed softly. "The water."_

 _His arms slid around her waist. "Yeah, that too." Steve looked at the cliffs again. "What if someone sees us?"_

 _"Then they will pretend that they didn't," Diana whispered._

 _"Oh boy," he breathed out. It had been two weeks, and so far the reaction to his appearance was mostly curiosity mixed with amusement, primarily over his surprise regarding their ways. But half the time he still waited to be dragged back to the caves, the memory of it stronger than he ever thought it could be._

 _With her finger on his chin, Diana turned his face to her. "It's just us, Steve."_

 _"I can see that." His gaze dropped to her slightly parted lips, heat careening through him with a new force. "Just don't want to get in trouble for doing this." He dipped his head to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the side of her throat, sucking hard. He smiled when her breath hitched and her nails dug into his skin._

 _"You won't," Diana murmured, weaving her arms around his neck._

 _"Or this." His mouth moved to the spot behind her ear._

 _She muttered something under her breath, in Greek if he wasn't mistaken._

 _"You were saying?" He whispered, kissing the water off her skin._

 _Weightless in the sea, she wrapped her long legs around his hips, and Steve lost track of his explorations as well as his breathing. Her hand moved to his cheek, tipping his face to her, watching his eyes grow dark with want._

 _"Diana."_

 _She smiled, her thumb running over his cheekbone. God, I want you so much, Steve thought._

 _"I've always wanted to do this," she confessed._

 _He blinked. "Do what?"_

 _His grip on her tightened, her gaze dipping to his mouth, her hand gripping the hair on the nape of his neck. "This," she repeated._

 _Steve's eyes widened, his need for her pulsing in his veins like it had a life of its own. He knew that she was perfectly aware of what she was saying, what she was doing to him. She seemed to be enjoying herself quite a bit, too. And he was more than willing to let her. Now. Tomorrow. Forever._

 _Had there been a whole Amazon army somewhere above them, with their arrows pointed at him, it wouldn't be enough to make him pull away from her in this moment._

 _"Goddammit," Steve swore before crashing his mouth to hers and taking her under the water with him._

xoox

 _Gotham, 2017_

In his several weeks in Gotham, Steve wondered if the people here had to sell their souls for a glimpse of the sun, and now that it was shining bright in the cold October sky, so piercing blue that it hurt to look, he couldn't quite believe it. He stepped out of a café in the business centre of Gotham, a cup of coffee in his hand, and squinted in the sunlight, shivering a little. It was not cold so much as it was windy, the chilly gusts snaking under his jacket and raising goosebumps along his spine.

All the same, it was a good day to get out of the house.

He paused in his tracks when he spotted a black car parked near his bike at the curb, so clean and shiny that it was hard to believe that someone drove it here across the gritty city without getting so much as a puddle splash on it. The very same car that wasn't there five minutes ago.

Amanda Waller was leaning against its polished hood, her hands stuck into the pockets of her thick cashmere coat, watching him walk down the steps toward her. Steve's stomach tightened with half-foreboding and half-frustration.

If only he knew that the key to finding her was not trying to, he'd done it a long time ago.

He slowed down, his steps measured as he approached her.

Waller straightened up and gave him a once-over, seemingly interested in the not quite faded shiner under his left eye.

"Captain Trevor," she said flatly. "I heard you were looking for me."

 _Yeah, two weeks ago_.

"I heard you were hard to find," Steve responded in kind, the smell of his coffee suddenly not in the least appetizing.

"I've been busy," she noted, either not noticing his irritation, or choosing to ignore it. "Anything I can help you with?"

"You lied to me," he said, only barely keeping his voice in check. It would probably do him no good to yell at a government agent in the middle of the street, but there was also a chance that he might stop caring about it very soon.

Waller arched her eyebrows at him. "About what?"

"When you offered me a deal, you knew… you knew about-"

"Your ex-girlfriend?" She offered. "I didn't lie about it, Captain Trevor. I merely never mentioned it."

"A lie by omission is still a lie."

"And no, I didn't know about you," she continued as if she hadn't heard him. "I suspected and a suspicious doesn't amount to much these days. It's not like Diana Prince bares her soul on every corner, you should know that." Her gaze was sharp, certain.

Steve stared at her.

She tilted her head, studying him for a long moment, and then turned on her heel and headed toward the square across the street, teeming with pigeons and businessmen on their lunch break, both equally disappointed by how deceiving the sun was, offering the light but none of the warmth.

"Walk with me," Waller said over her shoulder, and for a second, Steve contemplated hopping on his bike and speeding the hell away from here. If she needed him, she could damn well try to chase after him for once. And then he shook his head, dumped his untouched coffee into the trash bin and hurried after her.

"I want out," he said, falling into step with her. She wasn't walking fast, but he couldn't help but feel that there was a destination she had in mind. That, or maybe she always walked like she was on a mission.

"Out of what?" She asked, and Steve grimaced.

She knew damn well what he meant. They both did, and he was tired of her games.

"Out of Bruce Wayne's house, for one thing," he said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket as well and pulling his head into the collar when the wind greeted him in earnest. "You want something from me, come up with something else. Justice League is not working out… for anyone."

"No," Waller said simply, and that one word made his hackles stand on end. "I need accountability and cooperation from them. They prefer Diana Prince as the leader, but she doesn't live here, therefore the Batman is the one I have to work with, whether I want it or not. He wanted meta humans. You're one, it's that simple. Besides, he doesn't seem to have a problem with this deal."

"Oh, come on," Steve let out a short, humorless bark of a laugh, and added softer. "The man hates me."

"He lacks interpersonal skills," she shrugged matter-of-factly.

"Which is not my problem."

"Well, it is mine, Captain." Waller glanced at him, her voice impassive. "I'm trying to keep this city in check and I can't do it when a bunch of people who can tear it apart without breaking a sweat hop from rooftop to rooftop as they please, causing more damage than helping."

"Is that what you said when your gang of criminals went rogue?" Maybe if he pissed her off enough, she wouldn't want to deal with him.

Waller pursed her lips, and that was perhaps the first emotion Steve saw her express today. "That is exactly why I need to know what the hell is happening with Justice League," she said tightly. He could hear the notes of frustration in her voice.

Steve stared at the square before them, at the toddlers chasing the birds and office clerks picking at their food with plastic forks.

"And what if I just leave? Pack up my stuff and go? It's a risky thing to have a person as a bargaining chip, Agent Waller, and I know damn well how to make sure we would never see each other again."

"Then you won't get what you came here for," she reminded him evenly.

"Well, I can always just wait for what, 50-60 years? And then it won't really matter anymore, will it?"

She seemed to have expected that answer.

"I could also make sure that your new friends end up in the S.T.A.R. Labs so we could figure out how exactly Barry Allen runs as fast as he does, and how Victor Stone functions at all."

Steve's chest tightened at her implication, his breath hitching momentarily. She wouldn't—wouldn't do it after everything they'd done to keep the world, would she?

Would she really risk destroying the League, or at the very least forever severing a thread of possibility for peaceful coexistence with them for this kind of petty tantrum? Was not being in control of them worse than not having them at all? Steve thought that she was probably bluffing, had to be. Where would she be if it wasn't for them? But she was scared of them, and maybe she also hated them a little bit for the trust that the public put in them whereas she often faced nothing but contempt. It was a dangerous combination, indeed.

"I don't even know those people," he said as impassively as he could master.

Waller stopped, forcing him to pause as well, her gaze hard and uncompromising. If she and Bruce Wayne were put in a staring context, one of them would surely explode.

"Then leave," she said dismissively.

Steve stared back at her, willing himself not to look away first.

"I don't understand what is it that you want from me."

"From you? Nothing. You are merely a convenience, Captain, even though I have to admit that your longevity intrigues me greatly." She turned to follow a group of middle school kids who walked past them with her eyes, laughing so loudly they spooked a flock of hungry pigeons off the vacated benches. "All's fair in love and war." She looked at Steve again. "I'm sure you're familiar with the notion."

"We are not at war," he said.

"Maybe yet," she noted. "You just never see them coming."

"What is A.R.G.U.S.?" He asked because what the hell?

She smiled thinly. "All in due time, Captain. Have a good afternoon."

With that, she turned on her heel and started toward her car while Steve remained frozen to the spot, his mind racing. Having his life on the line didn't bother him as much. After all, it was how he lived for over half of his life. But the other people—

Would she really turn them into lab rats? He didn't trust her not to.

Ten feet away from him, Waller suddenly stopped and turned to him again, making Steve raise his head.

"To be honest, I don't really care where you live."

 **To be continued...**

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for your patience :) Feedback is always much appreciated!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's note:** Okay, so... Some of you, by which I mean all of you, have been asking me to fix the relationship between Steve and Diana for months now. Well, guess what?

To be fair, I couldn't wait to get there myself. I hope you'll cry because I did and I don't want to have suffered through this on my own.

There's some explicit reunion stuff near the end. Just a warning if it's not your thing and you'd rather skip it, or if you're a minor, which I don't want to think about.

Well, I guess you're good to go :) Thank you for your love and patience!

* * *

 _Gotham, 2017_

The storm came two night later, strong and vicious, the nature lashing out at the world with frightening determination. The wind was bending the trees around the lake house in half while the thunder rolled angrily so close to the roof that it felt like it was going to shake it right off any second.

"Do not turn left," Steve said into a headpiece as he watched a grainy image of a security camera on the screen before him.

" _There's also a right_ ," Victor's voice sounded loud and clear in his ear.

"There's a staircase straight ahead of you," Alfred leaned closer to the screen across the desk, his fingers tapping impatiently against it.

Steve's stomach tightened, his mind racing. The howling of the wind outside was making the Batcave feel particularly… well, cavernous, and yet he still preferred it to the ground level of the house where the walls suddenly felt fragile under the raging gusts of wind and a heavy downpour that made him feel like they were drowning. What was Bruce thinking living in an actual glass box he had no idea.

The distress call from the S.T.A.R. Labs in Gotham came about an hour ago, and at first it seemed that it was merely a power outage issue, what with the storm practically trying to flood the entire city. Until the maintenance crew arrived to have a look only to find the building alight and half of the staff beaten up within an inch of their lives while the other half was holed up in every nook and crevice they could find while the Lab was taken over by what appeared to be a group of people who Barry described in a hushed whisper as 'freaky' – Steve found that detail particularly helpful.

Fast, strong, ruthless, and without a grain of humanity and consciousness to them, they were adamant to leave the place, even if it meant taking a few lives along the way.

" _Test subjects_ ," Bruce grunted with disgust when they came across some sort of hibernation pods in the basement with life support system hooked up to them. Steve could hear him running, his footfalls soft and almost soundless for someone his size. " _Someone was trying to create their own universal soldiers_." The words sounded sour in his mouth, like he bit into a lemon.

" _Or meta-humans_ ," Victor added somberly.

Steve exchanged stunned glances with Alfred.

New meta-humans…

And suddenly everything felt a thousand times more real – the intensity, the danger, the tight voices on the other end. Like the whole world zeroed in on a handful of people trying to solve this puzzle while the time slowed down to a crawl, so precious each moment was. So life-changing each of them could be.

His mind jumped to Waller. To their conversation a couple of days ago. She wouldn't do it—she wouldn't have time–

How long could it take to drug and brainwash someone out of their mind? Maybe not long, but Victor said that the place looked like it had been operating for some time. Located on the lower level that wasn't even supposed to be used, it could have remained hidden for a while, he figured. A backup plan? Her Task Force X plan had failed spectacularly, costing her not only a chunk of her ego but also the trust of the people she was meant to protect. And the League, despite her attempts, was barely under her control.

If he was honest with himself and based on what he knew about this woman, Steve wouldn't have put keeping a whole new army on ice past her. Someone – Bruce? – had mentioned hibernation pods, and given the Labs' access to resources and technology, he didn't doubt that they could probably come up with a way to keep someone in a medically induced coma for as long as they needed it.

Until the storm cut off power for however short a time and woke the subjects up.

But that was a food for thought for later, and definitely something to consider when they had more time and hopefully information. Right now, they needed to get everyone out of the facility and try to round the… whatever those people were.

"They _are_ soldiers," Steve muttered when one of the cameras snatched an image of two men in what looked like hospital scrubs walking along the corridor, their eyes glassy, their faces nothing but stone masks that carried no trace of emotion.

"Pardon me?" Alfred turned to him.

"Soldiers," Steve repeated, his brows pulling together. "You can see it in their postures, in the way they move." Like they were on a prowl.

He wasn't sure if this was a good or bad news. On the one hand, it was one less question bumping around his head. On the other, though, they were trained to survive at all costs, they tended to be excellent at hand to hand combat, and although it factored greatly into a certain degree of predictability that the League could use to their advantage, devoid of all other instincts, they could be lethal. Especially devoid of other instincts.

He'd seen it before, in the Great War. Not a medically induced condition, but more like despair that stripped men around him off their humanity. Like they weren't going to stop at anything. They had reached their limit and had nothing to lose. Except they were not at war now.

The men paused in front of the camera and looked up, and for a second Steve got an unnerving feeling that they were staring straight him. So much so that he even drew back involuntarily. And then one of them reached for the lens and the screen went black.

"Great," Alfred muttered.

"Victor, is your father there?" Steve asked a little too loudly, getting a muttered curse from Bruce.

" _No_ ," Victor responded promptly. " _Not this late. The only staff around are those burning the late night oil."_

A loud noise of something like a file cabinet toppling to the floor cut him off.

And then Diana's voice barked at Barry to duck, so close that it made Steve's pulse stutter. More commotion followed dotted with grunts and yelling, although whose it was hard to tell. Arthur's war cry cut in, close to someone with a headpieces as he deemed being hooked to one of Bruce's gadgets uncool. More screams. Rapid footfalls of someone running.

"Master Wayne?" Alfred said if a little tentatively, fearful of being distracting when Bruce least needed it.

Nervous energy mixed with adrenaline was throbbing in Steve's chest, hot as lava. His hand was gripping the edge of the desk. Another peal of thunder rolled over their heads, making the whole house shake all the way down to the foundation.

" _We have half of them, out of about a dozen_ ," Victor's voice cut through the sounds Steve was no longer trying to interpret. " _And all staff is safe in the back, but a few might need medical assistance_. _Those guys knew what they were doing._ "

" _Don't hurt them_ ," Diana's order followed, muffled and too far away from them, and still like on cue Steve's heart slammed hard against his ribs. " _It's not their fault. They are confused and don't know what's happening_."

"Just another Friday night," Alfred muttered, rubbing his eyes, the lines around his mouth deeper somehow, his concern no longer hidden behind the ever-present façade of mild disinterest.

The problem, however, wasn't to just stop the rogue subjects, but to do it safely, seeing as how Diana was right and they were as much the victims here as the people they had turned on, but remembering that was all the much harder when someone Steve actually cared about was fighting on the front line.

His mind was still spinning, trying to put the information together. From the pieces he'd snatched here and there, it looked like someone was attempting to create new meta-humans by pumping people – who might or might not have volunteered for it on their own free will – with steroids and a chemical cocktail meant to increase their endurance and stamina and god only knew what else. During the process of transformation they were, apparently, sedated either to reduce the pain of the process or to avoid violent outbursts, but when the storm hit the city, the lightning damaged several power lines in the area, shutting down the machines they were hooked to and cutting off the drip of the sedative. The few minutes that it took the emergency generator to kick in were all they needed to wake up, drugged up out of their minds, disoriented, and desperate to get the hell out of the place that had turned them into something that they couldn't understand. There was nothing to them but heightened strength, fast reflexes, and an animal instinct to survive at any cost now.

The one thing that Steve wanted to know right now was if there was a way to really save them.

He thought back to Dr. Maru and her experiments, to the Nazi camps during the Second World War, and felt sick in the pit of his stomach. Funny how people never truly learned not to play god. Their ways grew more refined, but at the core so little had changed over the past hundred years that he was starting to wonder if they were going to keep running in circles for as long as they existed as a species, or if there was hope for them still.

Steve jolted at the sound of a loud crack upstairs, and then a flash of lightning darted toward them, a breeze of movement sending a stack of papers to the floor and the air around them was suddenly thick with static and smell of the storm.

And then Barry was lowering Victor onto the concrete floor, grimacing with exertion as he struggled not to collapse as well.

"What happened?" Alfred asked as Steve moved instantly to crouch near the Cyborg, a sick feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

"Nothing," Victor winced, his whole body twitching slightly all over. "I'm good."

"No, he's not," Barry protested in between sucking in gulps of air, his face glistening with the rain water. "The robot man is not meant to be tossed against walls," he explained.

Steve turned to Victor, not quite certain what he was looking for. He was no medic to begin with, and Victor… Victor wasn't even human, biologically speaking. Whatever his injury was, it had to be internal, and to be completely honest, he wouldn't know how to go about it even if he knew where to start.

"I'm good," Victor insisted, frowning with one human eyebrow and waving them off. "Just… need to… I'm fine."

"Is it over?" Alfred asked Barry.

"No," Barry shook his head fanatically. "Diana said to get Vic out of the way."

Her name set Steve's inner alarms wailing. "Where is she?" He asked in a suddenly hoarse voice. "Barry, where is Diana?"

"She was with Arthur, last time I saw her," the younger man responded if a little uncertainly. "They were about to be done. There was like a storage room, kinda like a vault on the lower lever and we were trying to lure them all there, those… things." He inhaled with a shudder. "And then one of them sorta decided to play a Cyborg rugby."

"He didn't—" Victor winced.

"You stopped responding, dude," Barry interjected and then looked up at Steve. "They should be here any moment."

Steve nodded, not quite buying his feigned nonchalance, not when Barry was basically vibrating with either excitement or stress, or a combination of both. At least he didn't seem hurt. Steve looked up at the screens. And froze.

Breaking into the Labs' intranet was a piece of cake, what with Bruce's advanced toys the origins of which he tried not to think too hard about. And helpful, too, as it allowed them to tap into the live feed of the security cameras. However, it wasn't what drew Steve's attention now. It was a small red warning signal blinking in the corner of the screen.

Earlier, when the power went off, the emergency generator kicked in. But right now he could see that for some reason, when the central supply was restored, the generator didn't turn off as it was meant to, and now the place was so overloaded it was a miracle the sparks weren't flying.

Steve darted toward the workstation and swore as his fingers hit the keyboard.

"Captain…" Alfred started.

"I need to turn off the power," Steve muttered, as if saying it out loud would somehow make it happen. He could feel three pairs of eyes on him, quizzical and worried.

"Ms. Prince asked not to-" Alfred began, stepping toward Steve.

"It's a laboratory, Alfred," Steve cut him off. "What do they have in laboratories?"

"Super cool tech," Barry piped in from behind them.

"Illegal experiments?" Alfred offered, puzzled.

Steve shook his head without looking away from the screen. "Oxygen tanks."

He heard Alfred suck in a breath.

"If there is a fire…" Steve started, but refused to go any further, his imagination helpfully supplying him with a vivid picture he wasn't sure he'd be able to erase any time soon. "Ms. Prince might need to be unhappy about this some other time-Dammit!" He smacked his fist on the keyboard in frustration. "It's not responding. I need to—I have to—" He sprung up to his feet, his breath hitching. "They need to shut it off… Bruce!" He barked into an earpiece.

And it was then that he realized that he couldn't hear anything anymore. Nothing, not even the ever present sound of someone's footsteps or breathing heavy with exertion on the other side. The channel was silent.

"It's down," Alfred said before he could ask. "The communication system is down. Must be the storm…"

"Victor-"

"I can't." Still sprawled on the floor, the Cyborg grimaced in what looked like pain. "I can't connect to anything, not until I…" He trailed off with a wince.

"I could go," Barry said quickly standing up, his glance darting toward the staircase. "I'm fast."

Steve paused and turned to him, considering his earnest, eager face, his whole body still shaking slightly either from energy coursing through him, or adrenaline, or cold. They needed to turn the power off as soon as possible, and of them all, Barry had speed on his side.

"Do you know how to do it?" Steve asked.

Barry hesitated. "If you tell me…"

At that, Steve was shaking his head and running up the stairs already, ignoring Alfred calling his name and taking two steps at a time because it was a matter of minutes, perhaps, and maybe Barry was fast, but if he did it wrong, he wouldn't be helping anyone. He could kill them all.

Steve's hands were shaking with adrenalize when he rolled his bike out of the garage and into the dark driveway, its wheels skidding on wet gravel. He tried Diana's phone on the way out the door, not surprised to hear it ringing somewhere in the house – they left in a haste. And then Bruce's in a burst of wild hope, but it went to voicemail, seeing as how they were all busy.

It was up to him then.

The rain was still falling in earnest, the wind throwing angry handfuls of water at the face shield of his helmet. The handlebars were sleek and slippery in his hands, and he had to grip them tight so as not to feel like he was going to veer off any moment. The wet road glinted in the headlight of his bike while the world around him was nothing but blackness and he hoped desperately that he wouldn't get lost in the maze of unfamiliar streets as he circled around the city.

Another lightning pierced the sky, and Steve sped up, fearing the worst. If any of them hit S.T.A.R. Labs, it wouldn't stand a chance. Even now, he was half-expecting to see a blaze of fire on the horizon.

Instead, the S.T.A.R. Labs perimeter lights came into view, sooner than he had anticipated, the parking lot glistening with puddles.

He skidded to an abrupt halt, the traction of his bike on the slippery ground nearly sending him flying, and hit the ground running as he yanked his helmet off and tossed it on the grass. Frigid rain blinded him momentarily. Even from twenty yards away, the building was towering ominously over him.

This part of town was crowded with banks and business centres, bustling with life and commotion during the day, but this late at night and in the storm that was seemingly trying to eradicate the world itself, it was dark and dead silent save for the explosions of thunder and the rusting of the rain. There was something unnerving in it, in the darkness around him and the echo of his footsteps on the pavement.

A few of the second-floor windows were lit up, but the front entrance was locked and his pounding on the thick reinforced-glass door remained unanswered. He could hear muffled sounds of struggle coming from the inside, police and ambulance sirens piercing the air – Alfred must have tipped them off. Steve's breath caught in his throat, panic building up inside of him like a tidal wave threatening to drown him.

He swore under his breath, the expletives that even Charlie, known in his brave days as a cussing pro, would find impressive, and started toward the back of the building, desperately trying to remember the layout the saw captured on the CCTV camera and the floor plans that he wasn't sure they could trust. The main breaker box controlling the power supply of the building was inside, but there was also a backup one, for emergencies, although Steve didn't think that anyone could have possibly accounted for something like this when they were designing this facility.

He heard a glass break somewhere inside the building, his head snapped up automatically, and there was only so much he could so not to dash in that direction on instinct. Instead, he nearly fell, running into Batmobile, black as the night itself, parked crookedly on the lawn.

Someone screamed above him.

Breathless, Steve stumbled in the dark, hands groping along the wall, and then all but threw himself at the breaker box when his fingers grazed against the metal. He could smell the smoke already, the metal was hot when he touched it, but it was locked, too. He glanced around, looking for something to break into it with, but this far away from the street lights, everything was black and thick with shadows around him. He was running out of time.

He flexed his fingers, curling them into a fist, and hit the lock once, twice, three times, the door bending under the force of his blows. At last, something gave in inside of it and he yanked the door open with enough force to nearly rip it off, his eyes scanning the switches wildly. When he touched them, they were hot, almost melting. He could see small sparks, too. Could hear the low hum of electricity running wild.

A moment of hesitation, and Steve flipped a few switches down, burning his fingers on the melting plastic. The whole building plunged into darkness. Everything went eerily quiet for a few long moments. All he could hear was the patter of the rain all around him, heavy drops bouncing off his jacket, his hair plastered to his head.

And then a sound of a broken glass pierced the night. A window above him shattered and something – _someone_ – went flying out of it. Steve recognized one of the subjects immediately by the swift roll along the wet grass and a predator crouch that he came up in. He looked up for a brief second and then his eyes fixed on Steve – a new target.

"Oh, hell," Steve muttered when the man lunged at him, his teeth bared and his body poised for attack. They really didn't have time for this.

The impact of collision sent Steve into the brick wall, his breath knocked out of his body. He hissed in pain when his bad shoulder took the worst of it, pain jolting down his arm and he pushed the soldier away. He stumbled as stars exploded behind his eyes, his hand groping along the wall for support. But the man wasn't done. He was coming at Steve again. And bloody hell, those people were basically superhuman and he very much was not.

His hand shaking, he grabbed onto the breaker box door and yanked at it, slamming it into the man's face. He staggered unsteadily but not from the damage so much as in surprise. Not letting him gain his bearings, Steve swung at him, punching him square into a jaw and bracing himself for another attack. However, before he could so much as blink, a glowing lasso all of a sudden wrapped around his chest. The next moment Diana herself landed gracefully behind them, her eyes blazing and her expression fierce in the pale glow of the emergency lights, and pulled hard.

The man fell back onto the concrete pathway with a dull thud, swallowed instantly by the darkness and rain. He didn't move after that.

Steve exhaled sharply.

They stood in front of one another as the pause stretched between them, separated by the veil of rainfall. His chest was still heaving, his hands flexing ever so slightly, curling into fists and uncurling again, his mind oddly empty. This was the first time he saw her in her armour since the 50's and he couldn't help but stare.

Diana glanced down at the man sprawled at her feet, which Steve found awfully ironic and more than a little hilarious, considering that it summed up the feelings of all League members toward her pretty damn accurately, albeit in a slightly more figurative sense. Then she looked up at Steve, a faint frown on her face, although he couldn't tell if it was meant for him or the situation in general.

But before either of them could say a word, Arthur appeared behind him, his eyes locked on the man sprawled on the ground.

"Nice catch, Cap," he noted gruffly, but not without approval.

"Wasn't me…" Stave started, swallowing back a comment about how much more in his element the Atlantian seemed when he was drenched, his hand clasped tightly around his trident and his face all but joyous in the fight. He truly did find his calling with the League, it seemed.

Steve hoped he didn't spear anyone in that building, or they would have some serious issues with the authorities. Amanda Waller would not be pleased.

Another shadow that leaped from the broken window effectively derailed the train of his thought, and then Bruce was standing over the man as well, his shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breathing. Steve could see a cut on his cheek, the rain washing away the blood, his eyes narrowed against the wind.

He glanced briefly at Arthur and Steve before his gaze was drawn back to Diana. "I guess we got them all," he noted.

She nodded and lifted her eyes again, but by then, Steve already stepped into the shadows and disappeared in the rain.

xoox

"Does it hurt?" Alfred asked, more curious than concerned, which, given Vic's history with surviving far worse things wasn't much of a surprise if Steve was honest with himself.

There was curiosity pulsing inside of him, too, so at least they had that in common.

Sprawled on the couch in the lounge, Victor looked up at him. "It doesn't hurt," he responded. "It's more like…. Like if you throw a laptop against a wall, you wouldn't really expect it to work as well as before, would you?"

"I wouldn't throw a laptop against a wall," Alfred noted.

"Not everyone is that considerate," Victor grimaced a little, and tried again, "Imagine your system failing."

Alfred arched an eyebrow at him. "I'd rather not."

"So how does this work?" Steve asked. Sitting across the coffee table from the couch, he leaned forward, elbow propped on his thighs as he studied the Cyborg closely. He didn't look any different, admittedly, but using his own analogy, a broken device might not either. Only one of his hands was flexing ever so slightly as if he was squeezing an invisible stress ball.

Victor turned to him. "Nano-bots will patch me up. At least I don't feel like I'm being electrocuted from the inside anymore. I'll be good as new in no time."

"Which is… how long?" Barry inquired.

"A few hours, probably."

"Would you like some aspirin, Mr. Stone?" Alfred offered graciously.

Victor shook his head. "Thanks, Alfred, but I don't think it's how this works."

"Well, then," the older man straightened up. "In that case, I better go check if Master Wayne has any bones that need to be snapped into place. Ms. Prince," he nodded at Diana who stepped into the lounge on his way out.

A brief hello, and she moved into the room. "Victor," she smiled at the Cyborg, walking over to the couch. She studied him, her head tilted. "How are you feeling?"

"Like someone broke him," Barry offered helpfully. He turned to the Cyborg and poked him in a metal shoulder. "Hey, can we reboot you?"

Victor waved his hand off. "Can we reboot _you_?"

"I'm not made of Nano-bots," Barry pointed out.

"My point exactly."

"Are you going to be okay?" Diana asked, nipping their bickering in the bud.

Victor tuned to her and nodded. "I am." He paused. "It's just—it's easier to be here where my father doesn't prod at me even though it's nothing," he added, and asked, "What about… those… whoever they were?"

Diana's brows pulled together, and Steve remembered Arthur mentioning the Labs' staff and night security who got a full dose of weird and had to be coaxed out of their hiding spots, not trusting the people who had attacked them to be detained and no longer dangerous. Several had to be sent to the hospital with concussion and a few broken bones, none of them coherent enough to even begin to tell their side of the story yet.

"They are under observation for now," she responded. "Once the drug they are on wears off, they will be sent into a recovery therapy to see if they can remember what happened to them and who did it."

"There was nothing in the S.T.A.R. Labs on them?" Steve looked up at her. "No records, no…"

"No," she shook her head.

"I asked dad to check," Victor spoke, his gaze darting between the two of them. "But he doesn't have the clearance."

"I bet we won't have an issue with that," Steve muttered, thinking of the magic that the Batcave contained.

Diana nodded. "Bruce will see if he can bypass their firewall, but there's a chance that whoever is behind this was careful enough not to leave any trace."

"So, we're just making meta-humans now?" Barry asked, voicing what everyone was thinking.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Diana said diplomatically. "We don't know that for a fact."

"It was obvious enough last night," he pointed out.

"Waller?" Victor offered.

Steve scrubbed a hand over his face. "She is quite busy trying to sweep it under the rug right now," he said carefully, mindful of not looking at anyone in particular. "She couldn't control Suicide Squad and she can't control Justice League. It is not unreasonable to assume that her trying to keep quiet about this is an attempt to keep her record clean, but there is also a possibility that she might be tired of waiting and decided to take the matters into her own hands."

"So that's a yes, maybe," Barry summed up.

"We'll get to the bottom of it," Diana promised. She turned to Victor again and leaned in to place her hand on his cheek. "Thank you, for helping last night."

He nodded again, and even smiled, his voice softening. "Sure thing."

"And if there is anything-"

"I'll ask," he promised.

She reached for his hand a squeezed it, encouragement and affection pouring out of her eyes. Then she looked up, her eyes locking with Steve's.

"Can we talk?" She asked.

He blinked, startled, as if there was another Steve in the room and she couldn't have possibly meant him. His gaze held hers, a silent question in her eyes. Anticipation. Uncertainty. They were doing a damn good job dancing around one another without much of actual communication and he wondered what could have possibly made that change.

"Yeah. Sure, of course," he said when the pause between them grew sufficiently awkward and cleared his throat.

"In private," Diana added when he remained sitting.

Steve nodded if a little hesitantly, feeling like a moron for no reason that he could pinpoint, and rose from his seat to follow her.

"What'd you do?" Barry's whispered theatrically to his back, but Steve barely registered the question.

He thought they would to the study, or maybe the kitchen, but instead Diana headed to the garage where she pulled the driver's door of a grey Volvo open, keys in hand. She paused when Steve stopped several feet away from the car, more confused than anything at this point, watching him with one eyebrow raised. Half-dare, half-invitation.

Oh, hell, it wasn't like he had anything to lose, and his curiosity was starting to get the best of him.

Steve slid into the passenger seat without a word and she started the car, the engine purring softly under the hood as they rolled out into the driveway, gravel crunching under the tires.

"Were they the military?" He asked when they were on the highway, staring out of his window and trying not to think of a thousand reasons for Diana to ask him to come somewhere with her for a _talk_ , none of which looked particularly bright in his mind.

There was little they could say to one another that couldn't be said in front of everyone else in the house, and he wondered if the trip was meant to make it less uncomfortable for either of them.

"It seems so, yes," she responded, her voice measured.

He nodded. "Makes sense. If you want to create enhanced soldiers, it would probably pay off to use the real ones for it."

The idea made him sick, the things he's seen before vivid and clear before his eyes. They had fought so hard for every grain of peace. He could still smell the blood on his hands, feel the recoil of the rifle ram into his shoulder, hear the echo of the gunfire so clear in his mind like someone was pulling the trigger not ten feet away from him. All this, and they were still here, in the midst of another war the people were bringing upon themselves for no reason he could think of. And still, every victory felt like merely a stepping stone leading to another battle, and another one, and another one. And there seemed to be no end to them.

Nothing was ever enough.

"Do you really think Amanda Waller is behind it?" Steve asked after a few moments.

Her fingers tapped against the steering wheel. "The question is – why would she?"

"You said so yourself – she wanted someone like you to control, but she can't control the League. I don't see anything stopping her from trying to create an army of Terminators if she is so hell-bent on power."

He saw Diana glance at him out of the corner of her eye. "I thought that having you here was meant to get Bruce to cooperate."

"Bruce doesn't seem like the type," Steve breathed.

There was something that the Batman wanted from Waller, but Steve didn't know how long they would keep up this charade without going for each other's throats. When her team arrived at S.T.A.R. Labs last night, just missing that narrow window of being useful, he did think that it was not going to end well. He wondered how close they came to having another casualty or two.

Diana bit he lip, two faint lines appearing between her eyebrows, but didn't say anything.

They hadn't spoken again until she pulled up to a curb near an old apartment building not far from the business district of Gotham. Red-brick building with bay windows and high stoops reminded Steve of the Beacon Hill area in Boston. He looked up, taking in the cheery curtains on said windows and potted plants on the windowsills and the general air of coziness that spoke of belonging, and felt a twinge in his gut. Nostalgia for the things he never had.

He followed Diana up the stoop leading to the entrance and then to the third floor where she opened one of the doors and stepped into an apartment. The large window right across the door overlooked the street and a row of similar houses on the other side of the road. He allowed himself to have a look around, noting that the place seemed spacious but impersonal. There were no knickknacks on the half-empty bookshelf, plain blinds instead of curtains, and the air smelled faintly of dust. Clearly, it had been a while since anyone bothered to open windows to let some fresh air in. Or to live here, for that matter.

"What is this place?" He asked at last, overcome with curiosity.

Diana closed the door behind them and paused hear the counter that was separating the small kitchen from the living room. She put the car keys on the countertop that, to Steve, looked like real marble. He was no expert, but the place seemed like a rare find.

"Clark stayed here when he was working on Lex Luthor's case," she answered, glancing around. "Bruce kept it after he—after Clark died so that Lois could take care of his things." Okay, that would explain the boxes in the corner, Steve thought. "I think he'll just wait for the lease to expire rather than bother dealing with it. I thought…" She trailed off and looked at him, her arms folded over her chest. "I thought it would be slightly more private than the house. It can get…"

"Hectic," he finished when she paused, searching for words. "Okay, sure." He shrugged and stared at her expectantly.

The slight frown of disapproval made its return as Diana gave him a measured look.

"What you did last night was reckless," she said. Not angry, but there was a sliver of frustration simmering right under her skin, close enough for him to catch a glimpse.

"Driving in the rain? I doubt it," he brushed her off. "I mean, statistically speaking…."

"You know what I mean," she interjected, not falling for his attempt at deflecting. "The electric doors were the only thing keeping those people contained."

"I don't think it stopped that guy that leaped out of the window," he reminded her, his heartbeat stuttering just a bit at the memory of expressionless face and dead eyes staring at him.

"He was the last one. What if they-"

"But they didn't," Steve countered. "They shouldn't have been created in the first place."

"That is not the point," Diana shook her head and leveled him with a gaze. "You could have been hurt," she added softer.

"I wasn't." Steve stuffed hands into the pockets of his pants, wishing he knew where this was coming from.

She couldn't argue with this logic and they both knew that they would drown in what-ifs if they ever allowed themselves to venture there, but there was something else that bothered her that he couldn't see yet. He watched her try to figure it out for herself, and the possibilities scared him.

"If we're a part of the team, I need to be able to trust you," Diana said at last.

Steve glanced away from her. "You used to," he muttered.

"You were not supposed to be there last night, Steve. If something happened to you-" She took a breath, her voice finding a disapproving edge, and his pulse tripped over itself. "We wouldn't— _I_ wouldn't know to help you until it was too late."

He raked his hand through his hair. "I wasn't—" he started, trying to focus on the conversation and not her eyes watching him with careful anticipation and the fact that this was the first time in the past few weeks that they were really and truly alone without a mission or anything of that kind looming over their heads.

 _I don't need help_.

He exhaled sharply.

"You think I don't understand that this," he gestured at the two of them, his voice something short of bitter, "is not working? You think I don't see it, Diana?" He grimaced when she glanced away. "I know that this is not about Amanda Waller or Bruce or anyone else. This is about something more and it will always be about—about-"

 _Us_. He didn't dare say it.

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose.

They should have discussed this a while ago, he figured. They should have tried to maybe find a way to make this work before the situation escalated to a kind of crisis that could have someone killed.

"Look, I wasn't trying go against your decisions," he tried again, fighting to keep his voice even. Surely he could lay out the facts without being carried away by… her presence or something. "I just… I saw what you couldn't see, okay? The building's power system was overloaded. It was minutes away from going up in flames. And with the storm… If it did reach the critical point, someone escaping that place would've been the least of everyone's problems, believe me. If I could get to Bruce, he'd be the one flipping the switch, but the communication system was down and Victor was out of commission, so…"

He felt frustrated, tired, helpless. And standing before her and not being able to reach for her filled him with such throbbing ache that he felt it deep in his bones. Standing before her and not being able to even hold her gaze because it felt like a sucker punch was even worse, somehow.

Steve shook his head and stepped further into the room, allowing his glance to wander. A distraction as good as any to keep his mind off Diana. She used to trust him, without thinking, without hesitation, and knowing that she didn't anymore… well, that hurt almost more than everything else.

"What is it that Amanda Waller wanted from you, Steve?" She spoke behind him.

A sharp, humorless laugh bubbled up in his chest, and the sound that escaped his throat was painful even to his own ears. "From me? Nothing. I'm just her means to an end. She wants to control Bruce Wayne and thinks that getting in his good grace will make that happen." He paused, and then added, "She has some personal information about me, something she should never have found. She promised to erase it if I do something for her." His lips curled into a bitter something. "Of course, she conveniently forgot to mention a detail or two."

"Do you trust her to keep her word?" Diana asked.

"I don't know," Steve admitted, turning to look at her again. "But I'd like to try and minimize the risk of Amanda Waller or whoever might come after her using it against me."

A faint frown creased her forehead. "So, this is why you came?"

It didn't sound much like a question but he still unanswered. "Yes."

"And why you stayed?"

Steve nodded.

She pursed her lips together. "I see."

"I know this is not the most…" he started, "…desirable situation for you, and it was your boyfriend's idea to agree to Waller's offer – and trust me, I know that we both wanted him not to – but I guess we could figure out how to… maybe stay out of each other's way without jeopardizing anything for the League." And added, "It's the last thing I want, I swear."

Diana's brows knitted together in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm not trying to—to take over, or anything." Steve took a breath. "Look, I was only trying to help. I _want_ to help. I really do, and last night-"

"No, what did you say about Bruce?" She stopped him.

Heat crept up his cheeks. Great, now they have to go into semantics.

He kind of figured out that whatever it was, the League was either completely clueless, or suspected something but didn't know it for a fact. Either way, they didn't seem to have a particular opinion on it. Not that he could blame Diana for wanting to keep her private life private and everything.

"I mean… whatever it is that you guys are."

Smooth. Very smooth. Several generations of his spy predecessors were probably rolling in their graves now, watching him crash and burn from the other side.

Diana was staring at him like he was speaking a tongue she could not understand.

She tilted her head. "We're not anything. Bruce and I, we're not – did you think we were together?"

He looked away. "I saw you. My first night in Gotham, Waller suggested we meet at the hotel that housed that charity function to give me a crash course on the best and brightest of this city… Which was a smart move, actually. You know what they say about being invisible in the crowd." Steve trailed off. "And there you two were," he cleared his throat again, "kissing."

Her face fell, the defensive lines smoothing out. "Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh'," he breathed out.

"It's not like that," Diana shook her head. "We're not… like that. We never were. That kiss was-"

He held up his hand, stopping her. "Don't say it was a mistake."

"It was not a mistake. It was nothing." Her voice was soft but decisive, without a trace of hesitation, and Steve tried real hard to ignore the flutter in his chest. "It was one glass of champagne too many and an impulse."

"Does Bruce know about that?" He didn't mean the question to sound so territorial. And yet…

"Of course."

"—because it sure as hell doesn't seem so," he finished. The way he acts around you. The way he _is_ around you…"

"I can't tell him what to think or feel," Diana said. "Just like no one has that kind of command over me."

"And you—you live in his house," he added, as if not hearing her.

"So do other people," she pointed out. "I am only ever in Gotham on the League business. Staying at Bruce's house is merely a matter of convince." God, he hated the logic that he couldn't argue with. She paused. "So, all this time…"

"Well, to be fair, I had no reason to think otherwise," Steve admitted. His gaze skittered around "I just thought you weren't too… demonstrative in your-" _passion_.

He choked on the word that opened room to the kind of mental images that were to drive him insane if he let them loose. He had already spent too many a night, thinking of her in another man's arms a few walls away from him.

"I'm sorry. It's none of my business."

He rubbed his eyes, wishing that they never started this conversation at all. Wishing – _shockingly_ – that he was at the lake house, listening to Arthur and Victor debate something or other, to Barry argue with a video game and Alfred telling them to please not put their feet on the antique coffee table, _thank you very much_. The list could go on and on and on. Anywhere but here, really, if only because he didn't want to think of what Diana's admittance meant and that wild satisfaction that it stirred inside of him. The one that he had no right to own.

"I shouldn't have—I didn't mean to pry," he added lamely, for lack of better ideas. "I… I respect your privacy, and if that was something that you wanted to keep to yourself…" he trailed off, all too aware of sounding more or less like a moron.

"You weren't prying." Her voice was soft. "And I told you that there is nothing happening between me and Bruce. I'd never lie to you, Steve," she said earnestly.

A laugh that escaped his mouth was short and harsh, grating even to his own ears. Steve hated the sound of it.

"Like you never lied to me about the fact that I died in Paris?" The words came out of his mouth before he knew to stop them, and now that the wound was cut open again, he couldn't help but keep twisting the knife. "On that day after liberation, when a German bomb hit out hotel. That kind of thing?"

Diana froze, all colour draining from her face.

"Because you didn't."

He met her gaze, adamant. "But I did, didn't I? I was dead when you found me." He watched anguish cross her features like a shadow. "Until I wasn't."

In the silence that fell between them, he could hear the clock ticking on the wall in the kitchen and a car honking outside, and a whirlwind of her thoughts that she couldn't structure into anything coherent. And suddenly the air was so thick he couldn't take a proper breath.

"How did you…" Diana started.

Steve looked away from her.

There was a snow globe sitting on the shelf right before him. He doubted that it was Clark's. Probably some other tenant forgot it here a lifetime ago and no one who came to live here afterwards had the heart to throw it away. It was small, the size of a tennis ball, and inside of it was a village – a church and a several buildings sitting around a town square with a fountain in the middle of it. Steve stepped toward the shelf and picked it up. He shook it, setting a snowstorm into motion, white flakes circling above the buildings and falling on the roofs and the cobbled street and windowsills.

It looked so much like Veld that he almost felt the chilly November air biting at his cheeks as they sat on the ledge of the fountain, watching the celebrations. Could hear the music spilling through the open café doors and Charlie's unsteady voice that tried to find itself again after all the time when Charlie had nothing to be joyful about. He could smell the chimney smoke and the snow, and in contract to it, the touch of Diana's hand to his felt hot as fire. There was wonder in her eyes, unadulterated curiosity the likes of which Steve couldn't remember seeing in his entire life. And his heart was beating so thunderously in his chest that he was certain she could hear it, too.

"Your mother told me," he said after a few moments, his eyes still glued to the dance of plastic snowflakes. "When we went to Themyscira."

"My mother…" Diana echoed, confused. "I don't understand. Why would she…" She paused, her breath hitching. Steve could feel her eyes on him, burning right through him, and he knew that he was cornered. That there was no way out this time.

He was so sick of lying.

He turned to her, meeting her gaze and holding it despite the fact that he could barely stand it, shame and guilt making him want to fold in on himself and cease to exist. She deserve more. So much more. More than the world itself. All the things he couldn't give her because he was not enough, it was simple as that. But he could give her the truth, at least. Maybe he could make it count for something.

And so he told her everything. About his conversation with Hippolyta and Diana's mother opening his eyes to his miraculous survival in not one, but two explosions that would have killed anyone else. About how Diana was the one who made it happen and how it came with a price neither of them had bargained for.

He had imagined that conversation thousands of times over the years, playing out his words in his mind, a smooth flow of the story that was meant to fix everything. But now that he was speaking the truth, the words kept jamming in his throat, squashed by the look of utter incomprehension on Diana's face.

She was listening to him silently, her eyes disbelieving and her posture rigid, shocked. He could hear her try and put two and two together in her mind, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing, her logic fighting a losing battle with her heart. He could see it all in her eyes, betrayal and hurt, not only his but her mother's as well, again. How many times could one person go through something like this before they couldn't do it anymore?

Steve wondered what kept her fighting after all this time when he'd come so close to giving up. He feared that this might be the last straw. He loved her for her goodness and kindness and compassion above all else. But how much of it was still there to keep her going after mankind had let her down over and over again for a hundred years?

He tore his gaze away from her, unable to stand the things that he was seeing, feeling exposed and all the more at fault for everything that had happened between them, for having done this to her and still doing it. The air felt charged between them, thick and heavy. Like it was a living thing in and of itself, breathing and pulsing around them. Steve felt his skin prickle under her scrutiny when he spoke of the day when he walked away from her, his voice not nearly as measured as he wanted it to be. And he knew the exact moment when she couldn't stand looking at him as well.

"This can't be…" Diana whispered when he fell silent. "My mother… she ought to be wrong, I couldn't—I can't-"

"You told me you couldn't shoot lightning from your gauntlets until a certain point, either, but you're a daughter of Zeus, Diana. Is it really that much of a stretch to believe that you can grant life?"

She was shaking her head. "But why would she tell it to you, and not me?"

He paused. "She thought that it was my life, and my choice to make."

"It wasn't." Her voice was laced with accusation and contempt now.

"She thought that if you knew, you would have tried to save everyone. And if you did, it would destroy you," Steve breathed.

"How could you not tell me?" She whispered and pressed her hand to her lips.

"How could I do it?" He turned to her. "You… you gave me my life back at the cost of—of yours, your strength. And all I could do in return was take from you, giving nothing but pain back?"

Diana's brows knitted together. She rubbed her forehead. "How can you even know that it's true?"

He did think of that. He had spent years thinking of that, hoping against all hope that Hippolyta was only half-right, the good half. The one that meant that they could be together for the rest of eternity without either of them having to suffer the consequences of this decision.

Steve ducked his head and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, willing the right words to come. At last, he had a chance to do right by her. And he needed her so desperately to understand.

"Because I had the goddamned nightmares every night after the war, everything that I'd done, everything that was done to me. All of it on an endless loop because I couldn't scratch them out of my head." He pinched the bridge of his nose until it hurt, until he couldn't stand it anymore and had no choice but to look at her. "Every _single_ night, Diana. Until you came back, and then they were gone. Until you started having them instead."

She was staring at him in stunned silence.

"The things that you didn't understand, but I did because I lived them." He whispered, begging her to see and knowing that she couldn't. "How could I keep doing this to you?"

"You lied to me, Steve," she started and stopped, pressing her lips into a thin line. He wondered what words of blame she was trying to swallow back. "You promised you would never lie."

He felt his shoulders slump.

"What would you have done, Diana? If the situation was reversed, what would it be?"

"I'd talk to you," she said forcefully, heatedly.

"Talk to me?" Steve echoed, a sharp pained laugh clawing its way out of his throat. "Like you talked to me that time when you snuck out in the middle of the night and disappeared for 16 years?"

Her face fell. "Is that why… why you did it? Because I-"

"Christ, no," he breathed out and scrubbed a hand over his face. "No, it wasn't—it wasn't a payback. I wouldn't, no-" He took in a shuddered breath. "I didn't know what else to do," Steve admitted, his voice dropping in defiance. "But I couldn't stand hurting you any longer. I couldn't stand holding you back and thinking that if something happened to you, it would've been my fault."

"But it still hurt, Steve," she whispered. "Every day when you were gone."

She might have as well slapped him. God knew he deserved it.

"And if I told you? What if I did, what would…" He trailed off, not sure how to put it into words. Not sure if he wanted to hear her answer.

"I wouldn't care," she said simply and without hesitation. "I loved you. If what you're saying is true, if my mother was right…" The words sounded odd and foreign on her tongue as she tried to believe him, not yet succeeding. "If I loved you enough to keep your heart beating, what would any of this matter? All I ever wanted was to be with you."

Steve felt his body deflate.

It occurred to him that they both completely lost track of time. The soft light of the afternoon turned honey-gold as the sun started to dip toward the horizon, flooding the room with the kind of warmth that he wanted to bottle up and hold on to, the old rug striped with the shadows that painted an entirely new story beneath their feet.

All this time in this world, and the one thing that never ceased to amaze Steve was that time stopped for nothing. Someone's life might be falling apart, people's joys and tragedies morphing seamlessly into one another, mind-shattering and breathtaking, but the Earth would keep on spinning, not pausing for anyone. Never allowing them to catch on.

"I know," he breathed, feeling so drained all of sudden that his very bones ached with it. "Because if it was me, I wouldn't care, either. But how could I keep doing that to you, Diana? How could I save you from myself if I stayed?"

"I didn't need you to save me," she argued, looking at him like she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "I needed you to want me."

 _I did, I do_ , he thought watching her, relieved to finally have the weight of this secret lifted off his shoulders, and loathing himself beyond comprehension for having done this to her, for the unshed tears in her eyes.

"If you wanted to go, I would never have forced you to stay," Diana added. "I would never have made you do anything against your will, least of all be with me if you wanted something else for yourself. But you still should have told me. You _had_ to have told me, Steve."

He ran his hand over his face. "What difference would it make?"

He flinched when the hurt lurking behind her eyes flared up with startling intensity.

"Well, maybe then I wouldn't have to spend nearly seventy years of my life certain that the only man I've ever loved thought that being with me was a mistake."

There was no anger to her words, no resentment, no accusation, but Steve would have preferred them to disappointment and weariness. To the bloody acceptance.

All air wheezed out of him. "I never said that it was a mistake."

"You said that we had nowhere left to go, that we couldn't have ended otherwise. What else could it possibly mean?" She looked away from him, staring instead at the floor and the ornate carpet under their feet. "If all of this is true, if you were so adamant to leave then, why would you stay now?"

"I thought that you were with Bruce," he responded softly. "I thought that you've moved on and none of this would matter anymore. You didn't want me here anyway."

Her expression hardened when she lifted her eyes again. "Don't put it on me, Steve. I waited for you, and all you have wanted since the moment when you walked through Waller's door was to escape again. I merely didn't want to be reminded of everything I wished for us to have but that we never did."

"I don't-" Steve rubbed his eyes. "I'm not trying to—it's not what I meant." He shook his head. "Do you think I wanted to be here and watch you be in love with someone else?"

"I'm not. I wasn't." She trailed off. They stayed quiet for a few moments – him running his thumb over a worn wood of the bookshelf because it made for a great avoidance technique apparently, and Diana staring at the wall because it probably beat looking at him. And then he heard her inhale shakily. "None of this matters, right?" Her voice was hard and clipped behind him. "You'll get what you want from Waller and be on your way."

Steve swallowed and turned to face her. "Yes."

And then he would spend the rest of his days thinking of how spectacularly he had screwed up the one good thing that ever happened to him and knowing exactly how much he hurt the only woman he was ever crazy about. Who still, despite everything, was his entire world.

She nodded. "I see."

Steve's gaze skittered past her.

"You know, when you called me a liar and a murderer, it was a spot on. It's all I am, all I ever was." His voice dropped. He glanced out the window because the words came easier that way, when he didn't feel as exposed as when he wanted to cross the damn room and kneel before her, taking back every hurtful word that ever fell between them. "You think I didn't know that? You think I don't know that I never deserved you? You're a princess, for heaven's sake. You're a _goddess,_ Diana. What did I ever have to give you?"

A car drove down the street, swerving to avoid a cyclist. A gust of wind picked up an empty coffee cup and chased it down the pavement. Even with the windows closed, he could smell wet soil and fallen leaves and the cold that was yet to come.

"It wasn't your decision to make. Not like that."

"I'm not going to stay at the lake house," he murmured without arguing. Maybe it wasn't his decision to make, but someone had to make it nonetheless. "I'll find—I'll find a place and get out of your hair. I'll figure out how to take care of Waller."

Diana nodded again, lips pressed together.

"It'll be better that way," Steve added even though she didn't protest.

He could barely look at her, shame and resentment eating him up from the inside. Everything that was good in the world, everything that was worth saving – it all lived in her soul, a little weathered and frayed after her time in man's world but no less brilliant regardless. She deserved the stars from the sky, but there was only so much that he could offer.

"Very well," Diana said quietly after a moment.

 _This is it_ , Steve thought. He had finally hammered the last nail into the coffin of everything that had ever happened between them, the good things and the pain laced through the moments in time when it was too big to contain. He broke every promise he had ever made to her, except for the one to love her until his final breath, and even though his chest felt lighter somehow with the words spilled out and shared at last, it seemed like a small consolation for what was yet to come. His relief over the fact that he didn't have to watch her be happy with someone else quickly replaced by the sad truth of not being the one by her side either.

Steve stepped away from the bookshelf and the snow globe and willed himself to bottle up the memory of Veld and every day that he'd spent with her since then as tight as he could, and tried not to think of how his world was tearing at the seams all over again.

Diana turned around without a word, reaching for the car keys still sitting on the counter, and Steve followed her in silence. There was nothing else to say, and filling the silence just for hell of it felt cheap. He bet that this wasn't how she expected their conversation to go.

At the door, she reached for the knob, twisting it, but the old lock jammed, refusing to turn. Behind her, Steve stopped abruptly not expecting her to pause, nearly stepping on her heels, so close to her now that he could hear her breathe. Could catch the smell of honey and flowers on her skin and the faint scent of her leather jacket.

Diana stilled, her grip on the doorknob so tight that her knuckles had gone white, unmoving and aware of his sudden proximity, and all he could think of was how much he missed the unobstructed closeness of her. Not accidental, not the one that he tended to avoid, but her presence in its purest form.

"Did you mean it?" Steve asked quietly when several moment had passed and yet none of them moved.

She half-turned, looking somewhere past her shoulder. "Did I mean what?"

"That I was the only man you ever loved."

"What does it matter?" She whispered, still not looking at him.

His gaze followed the slope of her forehead, the flutter of her eyelashes, the line of her nose and down toward the curve of her mouth, seeping her in. Allowing himself to do it on the off chance it wouldn't happen again any time soon.

He closed his eyes.

"Everything," he said at last, a whoosh of breath that fell on her neck.

Diana turned slowly, still caught between him and the door, and looked up. He opened his eyes and found her gaze, deep and so damn beautiful that he forgot how to function. He could feel her search for words, studying him from this close – something she'd done thousands of times, but never like this. Like she was trying to reach for something deep inside of him. Steve's heart had never felt this heavy in his chest, as though his very soul was bleeding.

She reached tentatively for his face, her thumb brushing against a small faint scar on his chin underneath the faint shadow of stubble, a thin pale line – two wars and numerous battles, and he somehow managed to cut himself while shaving. God, there was so much irony to it – he remembered laughing at it as he held a towel to a careless nick that was stinging from the remnants of the aftershave on his skin and she was smiling at him from the bathroom door, no less amused than he was.

"Diana."

"I remember this," She whispered. Her fingers stroked his cheek gently as blood roared through his veins. "I remember everything."

"I'm sorry. I am so sorry…" Steve started and stumbled, a hot lump lodged in his throat and panic rising inside of him in waves. "For not knowing how to fix this mess back then… and for not knowing how to do it now."

The words were tumbling out of his mouth, frantic and hurried like he was running out of time, and his heart was hammering so fast in his chest that he could barely hear himself speak. There were words perhaps that could make her understand and he was desperate to find them.

"I didn't know what to do—I still don't, but if I stayed… if I stayed, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. And if—if I told you everything, and you'd asked me not to go, I would never-" Steve swallowed, his mouth dry. His voice was tight and hoarse, and the touch of her hand burned on his skin. "I thought it would be easier to make you hate me, I _wanted_ you to hate me, but I can't—if I could take it back, take it all back and redo the past, I'd do it right. Somehow, I'd find a way to do it right."

Diana bowed her head when he fell silent, looking away from him, and Steve felt the ground swim beneath his feet. The urge to reach for her was unbearable.

"When you left, it felt like something tore me in half," she said quietly.

"I'm sorry." The apology fell from his lips again, earnest as it could be. "I missed you… every day, every moment," he murmured, scared to touch her even though he could all but hear her heartbeat next to him, so close she was. "I wish I knew how to make it better, how to fix it all. How to…" His mind was running in circles, making him faint. "I never thought those things that I said, that… that there was nowhere for us to go because the only thing I ever wanted was to be with you. But not like this, not that that cost-"

She lifted her face to his, tilting her head, and then she closed the distance between them. Her mouth brushed to his, soft and familiar, effectively rendering Steve completely and utterly speechless.

"I'd do it again," Diana whispered against his lips. "To have you with me, I'd do it a thousand times."

She kissed him again, her mouth moving slowly over his, breathing for him when there was no air left between them, their memories chasing one another and blossoming into something new. Her hand curled over Steve's jacket, fingers pushing into his hair, and it was all the permission that he needed to kiss her back. His palm cupped over her cheek, his hand on her hip pulling her closer still, and _Christ, he missed her so much_.

"Diana…"

"I never stopped waiting for you."

"I'm sorry," he murmured once more, not certain what else to say, his words punctuated by her lips touching to his. _I'm sorry_. He might say those words for a million years and it still wouldn't be enough. His hands curled over her wrists, pulling her hands down from his face and holding them against his chest. They were both breathless, dizzy. "Diana… you can't…"

"Can't what?" Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up. "Can't love you still?" She freed one of her hands from his grasp and curled it over his jaw. "Why?"

 _Because you're better than this_ , he was thinking. _Because you deserve more_.

This close to him, she was so impossibly beautiful that all he could do was stare, drinking her in.

"Because… I told you why," Steve shook his head as if there was a chance in the world that either of them could forget the past couple hours. "How can you say this after… after everything?" His voice cracked, and he sucked in an unsteady breath. He dragged his gaze away from hers and focused instead on her fingers curled over his and pressed right above his heart. "I lied to you. I hurt you. And I know my 'sorry' is not enough, can't be enough…" He started and faltered, no longer certain where he was going with this. "Surely after all this time-"

"Steve."

He wasn't sure why he was trying to convince her to push him away when the only thing he ever wanted was finally right there at his fingertips, but he certainly deserved her rejection more than her grace and the kind smile that made his heart ache.

"You are so much better than me," he added quietly. "So much _more_. How can you-"

Her hand swept his hair back from his face, making him still under her touch, her eyes searching his, studying him like she'd never seen him before.

"Because I'd choose it," she responded at last so softly that he barely heard her over the blood rush in his ears.

"Choose what?" Steve blinked, failing to follow.

It was getting decidedly hard to keep track of their conversation with her fingers brushing absently against his skin, making his pulse stutter with every touch. For all he knew, they could be talking about the weather, and he'd still be lost.

Diana's lips quivered, a smile that didn't quite come. "If someone asked me, I'd choose to bring you back to me. I'd choose to take your pain away," she said. "Of course, I would." Her thumb ran over his chin again. "I would always choose you." She hesitated when an afterthought dawned on her. "If you still want me."

 _If_ he still wanted her?

She was looking at him with such tenderness that he was scared to so much as blink for fear of missing even a second of it, her skin soft and warm beneath his touch and her pulse a rapid staccato under his fingertips. He thought of the first time he had laid his eyes on her and how she smiled at him in relief and wonder, so radiant that it was brighter than the sun. Thought of every morning that he'd got wake up next to her and every single thing they had ever said to one another. And he wanted more of all of that now, as much as his life could fit, be it another year or a thousand.

Steve nodded. And then again, frantically, confused by her implication – how could he _not_ want her?

She tugged him down by the lapels of his jacket to kiss him once more. It was hasty and breathless, and he could taste tears on her lips, although there was no telling who they belonged to. He thought he was dreaming.

"I love you," Steve muttered against her mouth. "I love you, Diana."

Her breath hitched, a low sound forming in the back of her throat nearly undoing him in the best way. His hands slipped around her, snaking underneath her jacket to touch her the way he wanted for so long. He pressed her flat against the door, kissing her with reverence and urgency and some serious desperation. Lithe and languid against him, she wound her arms around his neck, her fingers tugging at his hair as she dragged her mouth along his cheek, nuzzling into the soft behind his ear.

" _Diana_."

He name fell from his lips like a curse and a plea, fingers flexing on the fistfuls of her clothes.

When she drew back for a shaky inhale, her eyes were glazed-over with want, meeting his briefly before she pressed her mouth to his jaw, inching it slowly toward his heck, her breath of on his skin making him weak in the knees. Desire tightened in his stomach .

Her body pushed against his, and he took a step back, and then another one, and another one into the late afternoon light of the living room. And then her mouth was on his, plying his lips open and the crazy collision from a few minutes ago turned into something purposeful, deliberate. She arched into him, and for a long, endless moment all Steve could think was _finally_.

There was a time quite a while back, maybe twenty-something years ago when he stopped being able to summon her voice as clearly as he used to in his mind, when the taste of her was but a ghost in his memory and the way her laughter resonated deep within him carried none of the weight that he loved so, and he wondered not without dread about the day when she would only remain in the periphery of his recollection, incorporeal. Kissing her now, though, feeling her respond to the slightest of his touches, Steve wanted to laugh at the idea of being even remotely capable of forgetting her even after a millennium. Of letting go.

Suddenly, her touch was gone, and when he opened his eyes, half-panicked and dazed in equal measure, she already let her jacket fall to the floor at her feet. He looked at her, a silent question in his gaze, a hesitation to allow her to change her mind, but she was stepping toward him and nodding and reaching to push his jacket down his shoulders and allow the gravity to take it.

"Diana," he muttered hoarsely.

His hands on her hips, he drew her to him as the fear of this moment shattering before his eyes pounded in his mind. _The only man I've ever loved_. The words resonated within him with achy longing. Diana's fingers brushed to his lips, skimming over his face as if she was reading him in Braille. And then they dropped to his chest, dark eyes watching him.

"I still want you," he said hoarsely, honestly.

Her gaze traveled over her face and down his body, palms running over his shoulders, and then she was tugging at his shirt and inching it up until Steve raised his arms over his head for her to pull it off and toss it aside.

She smiled, hand smoothing his rumpled hair, but her eyes were hungry and wanting. Desire careened through him with all-consuming intensity. His awareness tunnelled, zeroing in on what little space was still there between them as he drank her up with his eyes, needing to touch her, to never stop touching her, but needing even more to capture this instant, its fragility slicing right through him.

This was the moment when they needed to pause and maybe talk everything through. She had more questions, he knew it, could see it in her eyes earlier. There were words on the tip of his tongue too, waiting to be spoken. Yet none of them stopped, and when her eyes found his, he forgot what he was thinking.

"Does this hurt?" Diana asked, skimming her fingers lightly over the bruise on his shoulder that had faded from the terrifying purple to faint yellow, still tender but not nearly as bad as it was before. A slight frown creased her face.

Steve shook his head. "No, just looks bad."

She nodded and leaned down to press a kiss to it, her mouth moving to a scar above his collarbone, as gentle as she could be. His eyes closed, seeping in the feeling of her. Her lips latched on the side of his neck, sucking hard on his skin, and Steve swore quietly, his fingers bunching the back of her shirt that was one layer too many between them.

Impatience surged through him, forming into a low grunt. He felt Diana smile against his throat. She found his mouth again, kissing every promise she could make right into him, her hands moving over his chest, tracing a map of scars – a life lived with purpose. He let her, revelling in the familiar swell of belonging rising inside of him, his muscles flexing under her touch. His hands tugged at her shirt once again, more urgently, and she drew back just far enough away to peel it off before her hands cupped his face again.

"I love you," Diana whispered, nuzzling into his cheek. She kissed the corner of his mouth. "I missed you."

"I'm here," he promised.

His hands slid up her sides, gliding over the smooth skin, palms flat over her ribs. And then they were moving, one stumbling step at a time, turn between desperate urgency and the need to make every touch, every kiss count. Steve hoped she knew where they were going because he sure as hell was too busy to pay attention, focused on her hands on his body and his on hers. For all he cared, they could have just collapsed on the floor and it would've been fine with him.

Her hand slipped around his neck, fingers burrowing into his hair and, god help him, he wanted her so badly that he could barely stand it.

Steve's calves hit the mattress – how they reached the bedroom he had no idea and no time to think about it - and he lowered down to sit on the edge of it, tugging Diana to him by the belt loops until she was standing between his parted knees.

"I have never not loved you," he whispered, kissing down her sternum while his fingers worked on unzipping her pants and pushing them down her hips for her to stop out of them. "I have never not wanted you." His eyes dropped shut, his voice hoarse and low as he murmured against her skin, but he didn't care. She was here. His, at last.

He took a shuddered breath and exhaled slowly, struggling to get his heartbeat and blood flow under control. This was not meant to be over before it even started.

Diana's breath caught in her throat, a shiver drilling down her body. For a moment, he merely sat here with his forehead pressed to her skin, breathing her in, fearful of his heart bursting right out of his chest. Her hand carded thought his hair, and Steve squeezed his eyes tight, willing himself to remember this second for as long as he existed on this earth.

Her hands slid down and under his chin to lift his head to look at her, his face cradled in her palms as her thumb kept running over his cheekbone. Steve swallowed, hard. Heat flared up in her eyes, pouring into him and thrumming in his veins, and when he tugged at her hips, she slid into his lap, straddling his thighs. Her fingers dug into his shoulders for support as Steve's hands gripped her waist to keep her close.

"If you want to stop-" he started.

Diana tilted her head, her lips curving and her gaze roamed over his features before locking with his. "Why would I want to stop?"

Steve nodded, absently and distractedly, completely at a loss for words. His gaze dipped. He reached to trace the of her pale pink bra with her fingertips, laze and silk clinging to her like second skin, not even trying to stop his blood from rushing south.

Without a word, Diana reached back and unclasped it, letting it slide down her arms and fall to the floor. His mouth dropped a little in a way that went just slightly below dignified. He didn't care, having to focus all of his willpower on not touching her, yet. His gaze traveled slowly from the smooth expanse of her chest to the juts of her collarbones, up the column of her neck, past the bow of her lips and until it found the fire of her eyes once more.

Diana leaned forward until her forehead rested against his and Steve had no choice but to hold her gaze.

"I have wanted you for so long," she whispered, her nails scratching through his hair.

" _Diana_."

Her palm splayed over his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. She smiled, pressed a kiss to his cheekbone, his temple.

"I love you," she murmured, marveling in the freedom of being able to say it whenever she pleased.

Steve reached for the band holding her hair in a tight ponytail and pulled it off, allowing the waterfall of it to cascade down her shoulders, soft as black silk. He combed his hand through it, pulling her to him. Her cheeks were flushed, lips swollen with kisses, the heat radiating from her making it hard to think, and he hadn't even done anything yet but kiss her. Steve tilted her chin to press his lips to her, loving the taste of her, the way her mouth felt languid against his, how she arched into him when he traced his hand up from the base of her spine to the nape of her neck.

He kissed the underside of her jaw, moving his mouth to the spot behind her ear. Smiled at the small gasp and a murmured curse that fell from her tongue when his hand traced the waistline on her panties. And then his explorations came to an abrupt halt when she reached for the button of his jeans. Steve sucked in a breath and caught her wrists before Diana had a chance to undo the zipper. If she touched him now—

He shifted her weight in his arms and turned them over, his palm anchored on the base of her spine, lowering her on the bed and effectively distracting them both long enough for him to find his bearings. If she touched him when he wasn't ready he would probably - _most definitely, surely_ \- disintegrate. Except Diana was kissing him again, and he was more than eager to give her that. And so he did.

When he pulled away, breaking the kiss to look at her, Diana was dazed and more than a little desperate, her chest heaving with each ragged breath.

"Steve," she mouthed soundlessly, a plea and command rolled into one.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, dipping his head to press a hot kiss to her neck, making her breath catch in her throat and shudder unsteadily out when his mouth moved down, marking a slow path along her clavicle and across her chest.

He didn't even notice her hands giving his jeans another push to slide them down to his thighs. He smiled, pausing just long enough to discard them and his boxers – an afterthought that didn't really matter at the moment. And then he leaned over once more to kiss a path between her breasts and down her sternum, pausing just below her navel to hook his fingers into the waistband of her panties and slide them down her legs in one swift motion.

When he looked up, he found Diana watching him, her eyes dark with want.

"God, I love you," he breathed, allowing his gaze to travel along her body from the ankles up to the slightly parted lips.

He had wanted her before. He'd wanted her pretty much non-stop from the night on the boat when they left Themyscira nearly a hundred years ago, but he couldn't for the life of him remember the last time he wanted her this badly. To the point of a dull ache in his solar plexus and tremor in his hands.

Steve bent forward, picking up from where they had left off a minute ago, tattooing a trail of kisses from her navel down, nuzzling into the silky skin between her hipbones.

"Steve," she sighed, the sound of his voice scattering around them.

It died on her lips with a soft gasp when his mouth closed around her, her back arching, fingers gripping his hair. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her bunch the sheet with her other hand, her knuckles white and her breath nowhere to be found.

"Angel," he murmured, into her skin.

He was slow and thorough, and he knew exactly what he was doing. It might not have been a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but Diana was a goddess, no less. Knowing how to coax the sounds that she was making out of her left Steve stupidly pleased with himself as he worked her up with deliberate dedication, stopping just short of pushing her over the edge until a curse in a language he didn't understand fell from her mouth and her fingers gripped his hair in a soundless command.

Steve chuckled and pressed his lips to her just the right way. Her breath stuttered, morphing into a whimper, muscles shuddering, and he was rising above her, kissing whatever skin he could reach. There were words on her lips that he didn't know, her skin slick with a sheen of sweat. He traced his tongue along her collar bone, teeth grazing gently against her throat. She smelled like sex and he was drunk on her, his own unreleased pleasure pulsing in his fingertips.

Barely coherent, she nuzzled sloppily into his cheek, kissing his jaw and pulling him down to her.

"Diana," he groaned, one hand tangled in her hair.

"I want you," she whispered almost soundlessly.

He swore, feeling her smile against his skin, her hands moving over him with impatience and urgency. She wrapped one of her legs around his hip, reeling him in – a demand that he couldn't resist, not anymore. Steve shifted against her body, pressed a kiss to her temple. She gasped into his shoulder when he pushed inside of her, hot breath on his heated skin sending a shiver down his spine. _I love you_ , he thought. _I love you so fucking much_.

His fingers flexed on Diana's flesh, moving along her thigh as he kissed her throat, trying to focus on going slowly for fear of making this end too fast. Beneath him, he could still feel faint shudder of aftershocks shooting through her, her muscles spasming wonderfully around him. Steve weaved his fingers through hers and stretched her arms above her head, pressing them into the sheets and feeling her grasp tighten in agreement.

"Look at me," he said, desperate to see her. "Diana… Look at me."

Her eyes fluttered open, hazy and heavy-lidded, hungry in the way that he liked best. Her gaze swept over his features and dropped to his lips, and it was just about enough to end him if he'd only let it. She pulled one of her hands from his grip and curled her palm around his neck. Her mouth found his, her hips rocking slowly beneath him to push him into motion.

Like earlier, Steve took his time, building up the heat between them until it was nothing but a hot coil somewhere deep inside of him and then easing away, moving above her as he whispered breathless confessions into her skin, peppered with promises and the words of love until she was frantic and barely coherent and his own pleasure took over reason. He could feel her teeth grazing over his shoulder, nails digging in frenzy into the skin of his back as his pace picked up, the need to feel all of her so overwhelming it was unbearable.

He dreamed of that, dreamed of making her his again, the bliss of closeness shattered by the light of the morning and the emptiness of his bed, her ghost a constant presence that made him feel like he was losing his mind. But she was real now, her voice and her touch electrifying, and everything he had ever wanted to say to her pouring out of him like he had no control over those words.

And then her body constricted around him, tipping him into a bliss of momentary rapture, her arms catching him, breaking his fall, cradling him close, her name on his lips like a prayer.

Steve drifted back to awareness slowly to Diana's hand stroking his hair, her lips on his temple and his breath falling on her collarbone.

"I love you," she whispered when Steve managed to drag his gaze to hers, looking no less pleased with herself than he had earlier.

He smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I missed you," he breathed.

Her hand closed around his and she pressed a kiss to his fingers. "I'm here."

xoox

Afterwards, in the soft evening light filtering through the window, Diana couldn't stop thinking of his haunted eyes, the vulnerability that he had allowed her to see earlier. Like it was something that was spilling through the cut-open wound.

For Steve, it was a no easy feat, and she knew it. The past couple of hours proved that they still remembered the language of their bodies, slipping easily into the familiar patterns and the smooth touch of their hands – all moves rehearsed and repeated but never lacking nonetheless. He knew where to put his hands to make her forget the world, knew how to kiss her to leave her breathless, how to touch her to turn her desire white-hot and thrumming in her veins. Diana loved that he knew her better than she knew herself, her body coming alive in his arms.

Yet, after all this time she couldn't help but feel a twinge in her stomach at the thought that at the core, they were strangers now. And she itched to make the feeling go away. She wanted him back, wanted him to be completely and utterly hers again.

Right now, stretched under the sheets beside her, Steve was watching her from all of two inches away, her head resting on his pillow and their legs tangled together, sweet weight and warmth and yearned-for comfort. She studied him back, taking in the tired lines around his eyes, his weary look, the tenderness in his eyes that made her breath catch in her throat. The eyes so blue that Diana couldn't help but feel like she was in them. No one ever looked at her the way Steve did. In all of her life, he was ever the only one.

She lifted her hand and carded it through his damp hair.

"I need a cut," Steve whispered, smiling under her scrutiny.

Diana shook her head. "I like it."

He ran his thumb along her jaw. His skin was a little calloused, rougher than hers, making her wish he would never stop touching her. "You okay?" He asked.

She nodded. Hesitated. And then craned her neck to press a kiss to his brow before resting their foreheads together, crowding his space. He didn't seem to mind. "I forgot…" she murmured, feeling her eyes drop shut for fear of losing the sensation of this moment, "what it was like to be with you."

"Must've not been very memorable," he chuckled, a little amused, a little wary of her answer.

Her hand moved to rest on the back of his neck. "No, not that. I didn't forget," she said after a moment, searching for better words. "I stopped allowing myself to remember."

"Diana…"

Her eyes opened slowly, "Because if I didn't, I'd lose myself."

Steve's smile slipped, his expression growing pained. She watched his jaw work, his lips moving without a sound, struggling against the question.

"Will you be able to forgive me?"

"I don't know," she admitted and regretted saying it the second the words came out of her mouth as he went rigid beside her. From this close she could almost feel his pulse stutter.

"Do you… do you want me to leave?" Steve uttered, his voice low and resigned. "Because screw Waller," he stroked a strand of her hair, but his hand was shaking and he drew it back. "If this is too much for you, I could-"

Diana brushed her fingers to his lips, silencing him, and then tilted her face up to kiss him. "No." She shook her head and kissed him again, slowly and lazily, smiling when he responded without hesitation, his hand sliding around her waist to rest on the base of her spine.

She pulled away and lowered her fingers to trail the length of his clavicle. They needed to talk. She had questions still, things that she needed to know and answers that made sense. Everything that he had told her about his conversation with her mother was having trouble settling in her mind, so wild it seemed, and she had seen enough wild in her life to not be easily swayed. But right now his body was warm against her, his chest rising and falling steadily, and she was deliriously happy and sated and finally at peace. He loved her. And she loved him, and somehow everything else lost its importance.

They would talk, she knew that. Eventually, they would figure out how to make this work, but right now she didn't want to think about that. All she wanted to do was trace the lines of his body as they basked in the lazy afterglow and promise him whatever he wanted so long as he swore to never leave her again.

"No," Diana repeated, her eyes searching his, back irises darting between the blue ones. "How can I want you gone when I just got you back?" She smiled, but it dimmed almost instantly and his brows pulled together in response. "I just—I need time," she breathed.

Steve nodded. "Yeah… yes, of course. Anything you want," he promised quietly.

She brushed her fingertips down his cheek. "And I want you, always." Another nod, and she felt her body relax. "I love you and I'm done losing you, Steve."

A shadow that had settled over his face remained intact. She could practically hear his thoughts chasing one another, bouncing against his skull.

Steve drew back from her and rolled onto his back, his gaze drifting up to the ceiling. He tucked his arm behind his head and exhaled slowly. His lips pressed tightly together like he was trying to swallow the words wanting out, his profile a dark outline against the pale rectangle of the window behind which the shadows were deepening.

"You're doing it again," Diana whispered, moving close to him seeking his warmth. She kissed his shoulder.

Steve glanced at her. "Doing what?"

"Pulling away from me."

He didn't say anything. She could feel his unease with her skin, his fear lurking behind the façade. It was like all the words they'd said to one another, all whispers punctuated by kisses dissolved into nothing. He meant them, she knew he did, but he was also scared of them. She thought back to the time they had spent together, _before_. Before everything went up in flames. Thought of how careful he always was with his confessions, pouring his soul into every single one of them but wary of making promises he couldn't keep.

She tried not to think of those that fell through the cracks of their relationship, ground into dust. Life, she had learned, was merciless like that, and promises were not unbreakable at all.

Diana propped up on her elbow and looked down at him even though his eyes never shifted to her, studying him in the dimming light. His chest was rising and falling steadily as he breathed, and two faint concerned lines creased the skin between his brows. Everything about him was so familiar that just looking at him was erasing the time and space between them.

"You're not less, Steve," she said. "And I'm not more. We're just… us. That's why we work, why we always have."

"We haven't," he reminded her in a whoosh of breath, and for a moment she was overcome with fear of watching him slip between her fingers again.

"You know what I mean," she shook her head. "We have both made mistakes. It doesn't mean that we deserve to be punished for them for the rest of our lives."

"But what if-"

"What if what?" She interjected. "What if the sun falls from the sky? What if I wake up tomorrow and decide that you're not good enough for me after all?" He flinched. "You think I don't understand? You once told me you didn't want me anymore."

A shuddered breath broke out of his chest.

"And you told me that you couldn't forgive me, which, trust me, I get because I will never forgive myself, either."

"I didn't…" Diana started and faltered.

It wasn't that but she wasn't quite certain how to put into words that it might take her some time to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. That it wasn't about him but about her as well. The art of healing one's heartache was never taught in a fight. It was the minefield that she had to cross on her own. There was no armour in that war, no shields and no swords, and every step could chip away just enough of her heart for it to disappear for good before she knew it. She needed time, but in no way did that mean that she was willing to let him go.

"I didn't mean it like that," she whispered. "I…"

"I know," he breathed, a small, humorless smile appearing on his face, the jagged edges of his voice slicing right thought her.

He knew.

He'd been there before.

"There is so little I can give you," Steve spoke after a moment. "You don't need me to protect you. You're stronger than anyone I ever knew, in every sense of that word. And it's not just my ego talking - and believe me, I have a rather inflated one - but facts. You're…" He paused. "You're a goddess, for heaven's sake. You're _divine_ in every way I can think of, and I- If leaving was the one thing I could do for you, how could I not-"

"It wasn't," she stopped him. "You say that having this… _bond_ with you," the words still sounded alien to her ears, "was a high price to pay. But it wasn't. It couldn't be. You think I wouldn't have done it knowingly?" Her voice broke just enough for Steve to turn to her. "You think I wouldn't have pulled you out of that plane if I could? You think I wouldn't have shielded you if I saw that bomb coming?"

He glanced away from her and then back, seemingly unable to hold her gaze. "Do you feel it?"

She hesitated as if to have a better look inside of herself in search of something that she didn't know was there a few hours ago. But what she found there was tenderness and relief and unspoken prayers to all gods she knew for bringing him back to her. All the things that had been there for so long that she had long forgotten what it was like to live without them.

"I feel... I feel scared because I don't want you to be taken away from me, and it seems like that it's all that's been happening since I met you. I'm scared not because I don't trust you, but because I don't trust you not to break my heart again for you're also the only one who can mend it." Maybe it was good that he wasn't really looking at her, after all. She wasn't used to being this outspoken, either. The key to keeping said heart whole, she had learned, was not baring it for anyone. "It frightens me to feel this way, but I don't know how to make it be otherwise."

She put her palm on his chest, flat over where his heart was beating steadily.

"Diana…"

"I told you that I loved you. That I always will." Her voice was soft, but his face contorted at her words nonetheless. Diana watched a storm of emotions sweep over his features. "Didn't you believe me, Steve? Not once?"

"I believed that you believed it," he ran a hand over his face. "You can't know-"

She brushed her fingers to his chin and turned his face to her, catching his eyes and holding his gaze. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed. He was not used to letting anyone see him so exposed, not even her because enough time had passed for the old habits to get rusty and what was once a given had a to be a choice again.

There were people in Diana's life, people she cared about and who cared for her, but the loneliness that followed her across the past decades was all-consuming nonetheless. She didn't know the whole story about him yet, the questions she didn't yet know how to ask rolling on the tip of her tongue, but looking at him now she had a distinct suspicion that Steve had put a fair amount of effort into keeping whoever happened to pass through his days at arm's length as well. She could feel it in the way he carried himself, in the tiny change of his expression when he thought no one was looking.

They were small things she'd seen before, but the time really put them into perspective. All those weeks when she was busy agonizing over him not loving her anymore, and it never crossed her mind that he was thinking the exact same thing. That she had left him behind a long time ago.

Her heart squeezed fiercely, tight with so much affection it almost hurt to breathe.

"How can I ever love someone else when I love you so much?" She whispered, her voice low and earnest as she tried to put into it everything that no words could convey.

Her question wedged itself between them as Steve stared at her. She hoped desperately that it was the right thing to say to smooth out the worry lines that creased his features. Her heart skipped a beat when a moment had passed, and then another. And then—

"C'mere."

He reached for her and Diana didn't hesitate, moving to him. She settled into the warmth of his body and brushed her lips to his skin above his collarbone before tucking her face into the hollow of his throat. Steve trapped his arms around her, holding her close. She could hear his heartbeat reverberate into her, could feel his lips press to her hair, and she squeezed her eyes, wanting to never stop feeling any of this.

"I thought… I _hoped_ that you'd moved on," Steve said a while later. "You deserved love, Diana. You deserved happiness."

"I tried," she admitted after a moment. "I have never stopped waiting for you, but I stopped believing that you'd come back. Not after a while." Diana's hand twitched a little on his skin. She drew her hand back, feeling his fingers comb through her hair. She kissed the spot right beneath his collarbone. "I tried," she repeated in a whisper. "But no one made me feel the way you did… the way you _do_."

Her words were simple, her soul bare.

"I'm sorry," Steve breathed.

"Don't be," she said, lifting her head to look at him.

Never wanted to stop looking at him, either.

His lips twitched again, and this time there was a familiar spark in his eyes, the one that made her chest constrict and her blood turn into molten lava. She felt his fingers strum along her spine. "No, I'm sorry for being…" Steve sighed, "glad, I guess, that it never worked out. Otherwise you wouldn't be here with me."

Diana tilted her head, allowing her lips to curve as well. "Don't be." She studied him for a long moment. "Do you remember Veld?"

 _Vividly_ , Steve thought. There were a lot of things that he'd forgotten since then – some through the passage of time, others through effort of not wanting to keep carrying the weight of them. But that night and her mouth on his and her body pressed beneath him was bright as ever in his mind, his own beacon of hope. The beginning of life as he knew it now.

He nodded, "Yes."

She brushed her hand through his hair, her expression wondrous and tender. "You've made me yours that night, Steve," she whispered. "I have never belonged to anyone else since."

"Not even-" He started and cut off. He cleared his throat.

"Not even when I was with someone else, no," Diana said.

He rose up on his elbow, capturing her mouth with his. Smiled when she hummed her approval in the back of her throat and kissed him back.

"Are you tired?" She asked against his lips, her voice raspy and wonderfully breathless.

Steve cocked an eyebrow at her. He bumped his nose against hers and kissed her once more. "No."

"Good." Diana moved to toss her leg over his hips, allowing him to pull her on top of him, his fingers tunnelling through hair and tugging her closer. "We have some catching up to do."

 **To be continued...**

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 **A/N:** **Comments are love and I'll adore you for them forever :)**


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's note: Hey guys, I hope at least some of you are still reading this :) Apologies for a break. I was dealing with some stuff and also I tried to finish the rest of the story before I went on with posting. Did I accomplish it? No, but I'm close!**

 **Thank you so much for you patience! I hope that you'll enjoy what I have in store :)**

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 _Gotham, 2017_

Steve woke up to the glare of the sun beaming in his face through the drapes that neither he, nor Diana bothered to close last night. He grumbled to himself and burrowed his face deeper into the pillow, not yet ready to surrender to the mercy of a new day.

His mind was hazy and his body wonderfully exhausted, tangled in the sheets that pooled around his hips and legs, more relaxed than he had been in so long he couldn't even remember. He took in a breath and then exhaled slowly, his arm closing tighter around a pillow.

And then the fog lifted, somewhat, and even in his half-slumber, Steve became aware of three things – first, it was later than he usually woke up. For the day to be this bright, it had to be at least a few hours past his regular _rolling-out-of-the-bed-at-the-crack-of-dawn-after-several-hours-of-fitful-sleep_ routine. Second, this was not his bed. Even after his rather brief time in the lake house, he knew that the window was supposed to be on the opposite wall, comfortably far enough away from the bed for the sun not to be bothersome until early afternoon. And third – something was missing.

He scrunched his face and rubbed his eyes, blinking sleepily as he breathed in the smell of detergent from the pillowcase. He stretched under the sheets, his muscles pleasantly sore and—

The memories came rushing back in as if someone flipped the switch.

 _Diana_.

He could still feel the taste of her lips on his and the touch her hands sliding over his body, sending a flurry of sparks along his flesh as they moved together, skin to skin. Desperate and hushed _I love you_ whispered in the dark. His fingers in her hair and her nails scraping gently over his scalp as she held him close. Delight and rapture and bliss, peppered with affirmations of love and promises to never let go, and his name falling from her lips, the sound of which never failed to undo him.

Steve let out a long breath.

They talked and made love and then, spent and sated, they talked some more into the early hours of the morning as she lay draped over his chest, his fingers threading slowly through her hair and her voice the only thing that he wanted to hear. The one that had lost its edge eventually, slipping back into the familiar husk that was no longer laced with anguish.

Diana told him about Paris and the Louvre, and how she ended up there when her mentor from the British Museum passed away, mindful of not overstaying her welcome lest someone notice her ageless state. About the exhibitions she curated and the galleries bathed in bright sunlight, her way of trying to fit in his world when nothing else seemed to work. There were both wistfulness and fondness in her voice, and endless affection for that part of her life. If saving the world was her first and foremost priority, then the museum was certainly a close second.

She drew patterns on his skin with her fingers and spoke of the things dear to her, places she had been and people she cared about. And Steve asked her questions, curious and desperate to unfold the person she'd become without him, his own chest swelling with pride in response, which felt odd and somewhat out of place – what claim did he have on her deeds? And yet…

He told her some things, too. Things that he had never told anyone. About his time with the British Intelligence that was beyond happy to recruit him with his real history stapled on fake dates, and trying to dismantle the cruelty from the inside, leaving and coming back when his old commanding officers were gone and there was no memory left of him, and the things he had done to restore the good as best he could, fumbling sometimes because he didn't always know how. Never had a knack for it the way she did, he told Diana only to have her say that there was more goodness to him than he could see.

Nothing felt like enough but it kept him busy, kept him moving forward and helped keep his mind focused even though he never stopped looking for her face in the crowd.

And how he stepped away from it all one day when he could no longer stand seeing blood and death no matter what he did. It was getting remarkably hard to tell good guys from the bad ones and he chose to make his own rules and become his own operative, and being a spy was a skill that came in handy like nothing Steve could ever imagine.

Until Amanda Waller unearthed him somehow, dragging him back to the surface once again.

There was more – more stories, more confessions and feelings that he never knew how to put into words, but there were only so many hours in the night, and talking was the last thing he wanted to waste them on. They would make time for it, later.

Diana was the first one to fall asleep, curled into the side of his body, her head tucked under his chin and her leg curled over one of his. For a while, Steve simply lay there, with the weight of her in his arms – something he never dared to hope for anymore – and her chest rising and falling evenly as she breathed. His mind was pleasantly blank, at peace for the first time in so long that the feeling was nearly painfully alien, until he drifted off, too.

But now the sun was up and the bed was empty and he decidedly didn't like it…

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face and rolled onto his back with a sigh, turning to look at her pillow. The sheets smelled of her, of them, and that, together with the outline of her body on the vacant spot next to him reminded him . He stifled a yawn and looked around, noticing their clothes hanging from the back of a chair – Diana's doing, undoubtedly. Last time he checked, they were strewed all over the floor. They most definitely weren't focused on keeping things neat the previous evening.

His slight worry was quelled instantly by the sight of her garments in the pile – surely, she wouldn't have left naked.

And thinking about her naked made him think of other things and wonder where she was and how soon he could get her to come back to bed for another little while.

No, make it a long while.

He sat up, wincing a little when the sunlight hit him square in the face. It took Steve a moment to hear that the water running in the bathroom, and he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and climbed out of the bed.

He padded across the room to the plain door that stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open further, stepping inside if a little tentatively, taking in the details he had missed during his brief trip to the bathroom at some point last night. A claw-foot tub that he was far more comfortable with than the shower with at least a hundred settings in Bruce Wayne's house was sitting under a frosted window with a white curtain wrapped around it and billows of steam rising over it and curling along the ceiling.

He could see the outline of Diana's body behind it, and relief that swept over him was overwhelming. It was as though he was still waiting for all of this to dissipate before his eyes, turning everything that had happened between them several hours ago into smoke and ash that he couldn't hold on to.

It didn't.

A moment of hesitation, and he stepped toward the bathtub, thinking that if she didn't want company she would simply say so. He pulled the curtain aside and climbed in, careful not to slip on the wet surface. Diana's back was to him, her face turned up to the spray of water. Still, she turned her head slightly to the side when the shower curtain moved, aware of his presence, her shoulders relaxing when she realized that it was him.

Steve adjusted the curtain behind him and stepped closer to her, and then it was just the two of them in a cloud of steam, cut off by a sheet of fabric from the rest of the world. He watched her smooth her hands over her hair before she turned to him, drops of water clinging to her skin and chasing one another down her cheeks, her chest, her arms. She smiled, and Steve moved to her, bridging the remaining distance between them.

"Morning," he whispered, smiling back. "I thought I'd dreamed you up."

Which wouldn't have been a first, if he was being honest with himself.

"I thought I had dreamed you up, too," she confessed.

Her cheeks were flushed from the steam and the hot water, and her eyes do damn radiant that his lips twitched for another second and then stretched so wide that he thought his face might crack.

Steve reached for her face, tilting it up and brushing a light kiss to her mouth – an impulse he couldn't resist, and didn't have to anymore. His arm circled her body, his hand resting on the small of her back, and Diana leaned into him, chasing his mouth when he started to draw back, her lips curved into a smile against his.

"No, all real," he said softly, bumping his nose against hers and making her laugh, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the running water.

She pressed her palm into his chest, right over his heart that was beating in earnest and found his gaze with hers. Steve breathed out. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to just look at her, drink her in, all of her, down to the droplets of water on her eyelashes. He wondered if she could feel his unapologetically escalated heartbeat, endless wonder coursing through his system as he mapped her face with his eyes.

His fingers curled over her wrist and he pulled her hand away, lifting it up and kissing her palm, his gaze locked with hers.

Diana smiled and murmured something in Greek. Heat sparked inside of him, pulsing in his blood, and Steve remembered why exactly he went looking for her in the first place. She spoke Greek to him last night as well, words without meaning murmured into his ear. There was something about the easiness with which they spilled from her lips, so unlike the measured carefulness with which she used other languages, that never failed to undo him in the best way.

"I have no idea what that was," he admitted.

Over the years, he grew to recognize _I love you, I miss you, I want you_ , and a handful of terms of affection whispered into his skin, between chaste kisses, the meaning of the words not as important as the fire shooting through him at the sound of her voice. A few curses too, if he was being honest. He wanted to hear every word in every language that she spoke.

Her eyes crinkled in amusement, and it occurred to him that it wasn't merely about her slipping into her native tongue when her guard was down and she allowed herself to just be. No, she was very much aware of the effect it had on him, and was enjoying it immensely.

He did not mind that in the slightest.

"I never knew I could love anyone so much," she said, this time in English, as she leaned forward to press a kiss to his jaw, her hands siding down his body to rest on his hips.

"I love—I love when you do that," Steve breathed, his hands sliding up her shoulders and his voice hoarse.

She drew back to look him in the face, one eyebrow arched. "Speak Greek?"

He cleared his throat, willing himself not to get too excited, not wanting to end a moment of comfortable intimacy between them. "That, too."

 _That's what you get for falling in love with a goddess_ , Steve thought, taking a deep breath and trying hard to stay focused. How he still wanted her this badly after they'd spent hours last night reacquainting themselves with one another he had no idea. He was supposed to be drained in every way imaginable, and yet here they were. His gaze flicked down to her mouth but he dragged it up. Admittedly, not without effort. She was so beautiful he could barely think straight.

"Diana," he started, savouring the taste of her name on his tongue.

Her fingers flexed on his skin, her eyes moving between his. She smiled. "I love you," she said again. He had long lost count of how many times those words were spoken since the previous afternoon.

His heart tripped over itself. He could live to be thousands of years old and still never get tired of hearing her say it.

He leaned closer to her and whispered, "I love you, too."

She smiled and picked up a washcloth from the small shelf hooked on the wall and then pulled him closer to her under the spray of water, painting his skin with soapy foam. He let her, dropping his head occasionally to press a kiss to her shoulder, her neck, whatever he could reach, promptly ignoring her half-hearted _You're being distracting_ , her voice laced with affection and her hand trailing idly over his skin. Let her wash his hair, too, and kiss him again as the water drew rivulets on their bodies, his hands sliding over her with easy familiarity that no time apart could have erased.

There was a mild undercurrent of tension between them still, their words tentative and new. Steve's father told him a long time ago that there was no point in dwelling on regrets. That one needed to learn from them and move on, and Steve had spent decades of his life trying to live that way. His old man was seldom wrong. But he was looking at Diana now, her fingers pushing through his hair and lathering it expertly, her lips curved into a half-smile, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of wistful longing for the wasted years and the heartache that he would never be able to reverse.

There was a lesson here too, but wishing that he had learned it sooner did nothing to take back the pain that he had caused. He only wished that they could go back to where they had left off, and if they did that maybe there was hope for them still.

Steve blew itchy suds clinging to the tip of his nose with a huff, making a face, and Diana laughed, and something warm and wonderful unfurled in his chest at the sound of it.

 _I will never stop loving you_ , he thought as she tugged him to her again to rinse everything off, her hands moving over his head, his face, through his hair, across his chest. There was not nearly enough space for them in a too small tub, and he couldn't be more grateful for her proximity, wishing that he had woken up earlier to have a chance to return the favour.

Maybe tomorrow. He silently vowed to make this a frequent occurrence.

Head ducked closer to her, still wrapped in a cloud of steam, he pressed his lips to her forehead, feeling her fingers curl around the back of his neck. Diana lifted her face to his, finding his mouth once more. A kiss was soft and languid but somehow it left him breathless and dazed nonetheless. There were a million words he wanted to say to her and no way of saying them, so he opted for the second best thing and held her against him as his lips moved over hers until the water started to run cold.

Diana turned it off and reached around him to pull the curtain open. She stepped out on the mat and he followed, reaching for the towels on the rack, the two of them cocooned in the wisps of sweet-smelling steam. They dried off in easy camaraderie, his eyes darting toward her every few second, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He had a distinct suspicion that he was, in all probability, grinning like a complete moron. And he couldn't care less.

She was the first to leave to go find her clothes, but Steve lingered, staring at her as she walked away and the droplets of water falling from her hair and sliding down her skin, and wondering how exactly they went from where they were the previous morning to this state of easy contentment like it was nothing. Like slipping into an old pair of shoes, except this was an odd way to think of a drop-dead gorgeous princess that left him with sore muscles and insatiable hunger for more.

When he walked out of the bathroom a minute later, she was standing by the chest of drawers and brushing her hair, already dressed but still barefoot. Steve pulled his jeans on and picked up his shirt, slipping it on over his head. The last time he felt this light was over half a century ago, and he didn't trust the feeling not to shatter before his eyes.

He crossed the room, waking over to her. Hands of her hips, he leaned down to kiss the back of her head.

"Do we have to leave?" He muttered into her hair.

Diana paused. "What else would we do?" She asked, a smile in her voice.

He chuckled under his breath and dipped his head to press a kiss to her shoulder. "I could think of a thing or two," he murmured as his arms slid around her waist.

Or more, if she gave him some time. Many more.

She smirked. "I'm sure you could."

A memory of the previous night flared up in his mind, startlingly bright, considering the lack of proper sleep. One of his mouth trailing down her body as she whispered his name, her hand raking through his hair while he—

Steve inhaled unsteadily and forced himself to open his eyes. He needed to stop thinking about that now, especially if they were not going to… well, engage in any of those activities at this particular time. Which was a damn shame.

"Everyone will be looking for us," Diana added.

He nuzzled into the soft spot behind her ear. "Let them," he muttered dismissively, not caring about _that_ one way or the other.

She turned around, her hands reaching up to frame his face. "I have a conference call with Athens at noon," she said apologetically. Her palm slid to rest on the back of his neck, her fingers playing with his hair that was still damp from the shower. "But later…" she let the end of the sentence to hang between them, one elegant eyebrow lifted.

"You promise?" He pulled her closer to him, debating for a moment kissing her until _later_ became _now_.

"I promise."

And a promise was unbreakable.

He paused, and then said quietly, "I want you to promise me something else."

"What?" Diana tilted her head, her smile slipping at the sight of turmoil that chased across his face. "Steve, what is it?"

He took a deep breath, trying to ignore a foul taste of the words rolling on the tip of his tongue. "I want you to promise me that if something—if anything happens to me again, you won't… you won't try to-"

"No," she interjected before he could even finish.

"Diana…"

"No."

She was shaking her head and staring at him like he was mad.

"Please."

"How can you ask that of me?" Her voice dropped, hurt and incredulous.

Steve lowered his hands from her body. "How can I not?"

He felt helpless, stupid, fumbling for words that wouldn't come.

His thoughts drifted back to the cold November night on the airfield in Belgium and his muscles aching and his lungs burning as he ran after the plane that was about to take off and destroy millions of lives. The wind was biting at his cheeks, and when Diana called out his name there was nothing that Steve wanted more than to turn around. Wanted to go back in time to the night before and the hushed whisper of their voices in the dark and a fantasy of their life together that he had weaved in his mind.

Instead, he surged forward, taking advantage of her disoriented state, knowing that if he looked back he would never be able to carry through with his plan that made Charlie turn pale and Sameer swear colourfully under when he laid it out to them several minutes earlier.

They were running out of time, and as Steve's hands closed around the rungs of the ladder attached to the plane, he thought that he was about to make a difference at last. And so instead of going back to the woman he loved with infinite devotion and holding her face in his hands and telling her time and time again how much she meant to him until his throat went raw, he climbed into the belly of the airplane and pulled the trigger so she could finish the mission of her people. He was only a grain of sand in the universe and she was a beacon of salvation to them all.

He did it then because she was important. He was asking her now to let him go if she had to for the same reason. Except he didn't know how to do it. Not when he wanted to be with her to the ache deep in his bones.

Steve pushed his hand through his hair and took a step back, unable to stand being this close to her and not touch her, not sure that he was supposed to. Not when she was looking at him like this, like—

"How can I not do it?" He repeated, gesturing at her, feeling foolish because for an articulate guy who managed to talk his way out of some shitty situations more than once he was remarkably at a loss for words. "I mean, you're… _you_ , and I am-"

"You're what?"

He took a deep breath and looked away, hand reaching to rub his eyes. "You mean something, Diana. To the world, to-"

"And you mean something to me," she interjected. "A lot. You mean a lot to _me_ , Steve."

"You know what I'm talking about," he muttered, shaking his head.

Diana moved toward him without hesitation, and he let her, his need for her throbbing dully in his chest. Her hands reached for him, clutching the fabric of his shirt to tug him closer to her, sliding up his chest. Her eyes searched his face, and once they found his gaze, he couldn't look away.

"I know that last night you told me that you loved me," she said quietly. "You told me that you wanted to be with me and you took me to bed and you made love to me. I know that I wanted that, too. Did it mean anything at all? All the confessions, all the promises. Or were they just the words you thought I expected to hear?"

Panic rose inside of him in a hot wave. She didn't think that, did she? She wouldn't… Last night, before sleep took him, he was agonizing over whether he trusted her to still want to be with him, even after he broke her heart the way he did. It had never crossed his mind, not even for a moment, that she might think he had doubts of his own.

Steve bowed his head until their foreheads were almost touching, his palms curling around her sides and sliding up her back. "Don't say that. You know it's not true."

"Then don't ask that of me, Steve," she whispered, her voice soft. "Please don't, I can't—I won't-" Her thumb was stroking his cheek, running over the stubble. He didn't have a chance to shave today yet.

"Diana…" he swallowed, his mouth dry.

"I want forever with you," she told him. "It's all I ever wanted, and now… How many second chances are we going to be given before we see them for what they are?"

She smoothed down his hair, her gaze roaming over his features, open and earnest, and he knew how much it cost her to bare her heart before him like that. After all this time, after everything they had both gone through, everything _she_ had been through on her own. It must not have been an easy feat. His throat grew tight.

"It has always been you, Steve Trevor." Her voice was quiet but decisive. "It will always be."

Forever. He liked the idea of that. He could live an infinite number of lives with her, share millions of moments, and never want anything else, not for one second.

He touched his thumb to her chin. "Because of that prophecy that your mother told us about?"

Diana shook her head. "Prophecy or not, we make our own fates for the gods that map our paths are tricksters who love to confuse and deceive people. But you came back to me. You came back to me time and time again. I have no way of knowing if what my mother told you was true, if it was something within me that made it happen, but if it was… if it _is_ , there is no price high enough for what we have." She paused. "Would you not do the same for me?"

"In a heartbeat," Steve replied without hesitation.

"Then how could I not?" She tilted her head, watching the worry lines smooth out on his face. "Do you still want me?"

"Always," he rasped.

"I am yours for as long as you'll have me."

He felt the corner of his mouth curl up into a smile. He twisted a strand of her hair around his finger. "That might be a while."

Diana smiled back at him. "Not long enough," she whispered.

Steve's heart slammed against his ribcage with enough force to leave him reeling.

He didn't believe in gods – not all of them, at least, and not the way Diana did, his experience with Ares aside. Didn't believe in fate either. He was raised to be practical and pragmatic, to rely on facts and experience rather than faith. It always seemed feeble to him, too incorporeal to take it seriously. But how else could he explain that the daughter of a god from the Olympus and a Princess of the Amazons stole a heart of a lonely spy who had long lost his way in the world that turned cruel and crumbled before his eyes?

There was no way of forcing her to make that promise, and god help him, he didn't want her to make it, either – he wanted as many years with her as could get, no matter what. Selfish bastard, he was stupidly, absurdly happy that she chose him. She had a chance to weigh her options through the experience that he wasn't a part of and see that he was in all probability not as above-average as he wanted her to think, and she _still_ chose him.

Steve exhaled slowly. "Yeah, let's talk about that in a couple hundred years."

Diana nuzzled into him, her fingers curling over the fabric of his shirt as though she thought that he might want to escape, adamant to hold him close – something that she most definitely didn't have to worry about, not even a little – and murmured something in an ancient tongue that only her people remembered to honour.

He smiled despite himself. "What did you say?" He asked quietly, willing his body not to respond the way it tended to whenever she did that, a string of syllables sending a burst of heat through his blood.

Diana looked up, a soft smile on her lips nearly undoing him. "I'll tell you later," she said and bit her lip but it didn't stop her smile from turning into an indulgent grin when Steve swallowed visibly, his mind painting vivid images he was quite eager to make come true.

He licked his lips, having to put an almost inhuman effort into staying focused. Surely, a conference call couldn't be that important? His fingers flexed on her body, and she lifted an eyebrow in an unspoken question, looking downright smug now.

(He wondered if it was a permission to start taking her clothes off.)

"So, you really want this?" He clarified, watching her eyes flick between his.

"Of course." She tilted her head, surprised. "Steve, yes."

He cleared his throat. "And we're-"

"Together." She took his hand and laced her fingers with his, watching the fire ignite in his eyes.

 _Together. In that way_.

He brushed his lips to her knuckles and then leaned forward, finding her mouth with his. Diana smiled, kissed him back. Her hand slipped out of his grasp to curl over his jaw, her back arching into him. Her tongue slipped past his lips and a strangled sound formed in the back of his throat – surprise and pleasure and approval. She was going to be the death of him, and he was more than willing to surrender.

His hand slipped underneath her shirt, calloused palm splayed over the base of her spine. He dropped his head to trace a path along her jaw and toward her neck, sucking hard on her skin when she threw her head back to better accommodate his couch, hands digging into his shoulders. They should have just skipped getting dressed altogether, he thought.

"Are you sure we have to-" Steve started against her throat, teeth grazing gently over her pulse point, smiling when her breath hitched in her throat.

A loud grumble of his stomach cut him off.

"Christ," he groaned when Diana laughed, and dropped his forehead onto the slope of her shoulder, his eyes squeezed shut in frustration. The mood gone in an instant. "I'm sorry," he muttered, the sound of it muffled by the fabric of her shirt. "Speak of awful timing."

"Let's go take care of this," she whispered, kissing his temple, her nails scratching through the hair on the nape of his neck.

Steve raised his head and shook it adamantly. "I'm fine."

"Liar," she whispered, catching his face between her hands, eyes finding his.

His gaze drifted instantly down to her mouth, swollen from kissing. "Yeah, well, I'm gonna give you that," he said absently, staring unashamedly at the bow of her lips.

"Steve."

"Mm?" He blinked and lifted his gaze, not even bothering to pretend to follow the conversation. He probably looked like a love-sick idiot to her. Not that he cared. This was to new and he ached for her for too long to care about anything except- "It was nothing. I'm not hungry, I swear," he assured her heatedly - a little too heatedly – as he attempted to pull her closer again. "Now, where were we…"

Diana stopped him with her hand on his chest. "When was the last time you ate?" She inquired.

He scrunched his face, considering the question for a moment. "Before you whisked me away to…" he glanced round the bedroom, "take care of other things."

"You need to eat," she pressed. He turned back to her and tilted his head quizzically. " _We_ do," she corrected.

She was right. She was always right and he conceded it with an exasperated huff, his grip on her loosening if somewhat unwillingly.

"Right, well… to be continued?" Steve asked softly, tracing an idle pattern over her clavicle with his finger. He looked up and reached over to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

Diana's smile stretched wider, the corners of her eyes crinkling in that way he loved so. So majestic he could barely take it.

"To be continued," she promised, leaning forward to touch her lips to the corner of his mouth.

He believed her.

xoox

"Donuts!" Barry exclaimed, snatching one from the box and sending sugar powder flying everywhere. He bit into it with a groan, "Gawd, this is good!"

Steve never saw anyone chew with so much concentration. It was almost like Barry's very existence zeroed in on a piece of glazed dough. The ever-hungry speedster was so easy to please it was endearing beyond measure. He bit back a smile and turned to the coffee machine on the counter, desperate to chase away the fogginess off the sleepless night from his head. Trust Alfred to have it running since early morning. God bless Alfred.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Diana who was watching the feast with amusement, arms folded over her chest and a gentle smile playing on his face. She caught him looking, and offered him a tiny nod in response to an eyebrow raised in a silent question. Without a word, Steve reached for a second cup, wondering how rude would it be to ask them all to take the food elsewhere so he could kiss her.

"You're the best mom ever," Barry muttered, tossing the last bit into his mouth and peering hungrily into the box again.

Diana smirked. "Actually, it was Steve's idea," she said.

Another donut in hand, Barry turned to Steve. "You're the best mom-"

"Please don't," Steve interjected, horrified, and raised his hand for good measure.

Diana pursed her lips around another smile.

He slid the cup toward her. She picked it up and took a sip before mouthing a soundless _Thank you_ to him, a twinkle in her eyes effectively making him forget how to think.

Barry clammed his mouth shut, not offended in the slightest.

"Man, I miss this," Victor muttered, studying the food.

Barry swallowed and turned to him. "Yeah, dude. That's, like, the worst thing about your," he waved a donut in Victor's general direction, "situation."

Vic gave him an incredulous look. "You think?" He asked flatly.

Arthur stepped toward the counter, curious and maybe a tad more suspicious than the moment warranted. "So, what's the occasion?" He asked.

"These are just treats," Diana countered without missing one beat. "Do they need an occasion?"

"And they're also not as boring as-" Barry started.

"Careful how you finish that sentence, Mr. Allen," Alfred warned him, walking in, a newspaper in his hand, and moving straight toward the kettle.

"—as other donuts in this world," Barry finished hastily. He turned to Diana. "Bruce was looking for you last night," he informed her around a mouthful.

"I was busy," she responded evenly, sipping her coffee.

Steve coughed into his first, trying and mostly failing to keep a straight face. He was a spy, for heaven's sake. He was supposed to be able to stay calm and composed under any circumstances, and his suddenly flushed cheeks were hardly an indication of that. Under any circumstances except those, apparently. Then again, this was hardly a life-and-death emergency. He was allowed to be distracted.

"Not too busy to get donuts, thank god," he muttered.

"Yeah, we were just…" Steve started and faltered.

"Driving," Diana added, clearly enjoying the colour rising up his cheeks that he hoped he could blame on the caffeine.

He turned away, knowing that one look at her would be a dead giveaway. He already had trouble holding back that shit-eating grin that kept spreading over his face every time he thought of everything they did last night, and everything that they were going to do this night, and probably every night for the next millennium or so - he wasn't yet ready to plan past that.

Somehow, in the midst of telling her time and time again how much he loved her, he didn't consider the issue of sharing the living space with half a dozen other people who tended to be curious out of their minds and not at all conspicuous or tactful about it. And one of whom wasn't going to be overly pleased with the development in their relationship.

There was a brief moment of relief when he thought that they were going to move on to another subject, and then he all but heard the realization dawn on Barry, whose eyes grew wide, darting wildly between him and Diana for a few moments. His jaw dropped in that cartoonish way that Steve never saw happen to a real person. (Whether or not Barry _was_ one was a big question, though.)

And then his sugar powder-coated lips split into a smile so wide that it threatened to crack his head in half. "Aw," he drawled, nearly falling off the tall bar stool in excitement. "You guys."

"What?" Arthur asked, confused. He looked at Victor, but the latter only shrugged his shoulders and turned to Barry, waiting for an explanation.

"Nothing," Steve rubbed his eyes as Diana bit her lip, barely hold back her laughter.

Christ, he should have seen this coming. Why didn't he see this coming?

"I can't believe it," Barry breathed out in awe.

"Can't believe what?" Bruce asked, appearing in the kitchen with Clark behind him.

Diana gave Barry a pointed look.

He sputtered for a moment, torn, and then span around on his stool and shoved the box into Bruce's chest. "A donut?"

Ignoring him, Bruce swept his gaze over the crowd in the kitchen, moving past the Cyborg and Alfred and the food and seemingly not seeing Arthur at all, which was pretty damn impressive considering that the Atlantian was taking up most of the space, until it landed on Diana who was leaning against the kitchen island, her shoulder touching Steve's.

There was an almost seismic shift in the air when the understanding clicked. Steve's eyes, fixed on Alfred at the moment, moved involuntarily to the man standing near the door just in time to see Bruce's lips press into a thin line. There was resignation and defiance and hurt in his eyes, and Steve wondered if _he_ was looking at Bruce the exact same way only a few days ago.

If he was being completely honest, he didn't think about the ramifications of what had happened between him and Diana last night until she pulled up to the house with him in the passenger seat with a box from a bakery in the city balanced on his lap and he was struck by a sudden awareness that he was about to parade a victory of sorts before the man who very obviously wanted to have what Steve now had.

He'd lie to himself if he didn't admit that there was a certain degree of satisfaction to the feeling. After weeks of thinking that she was sharing another man's bed, his relief from knowing that it wasn't true was overwhelming, and there was a small and petty part deep inside of Steve that rejoiced at it. Ironically, he had Bruce to thank for it, too. If he had said no to Waller's offer all those weeks ago, Steve would have left Gotham the same night never to be heard of again.

He thought he would feel smug about the whole thing, anticipated it even. Instead, he felt almost guilty and more understanding than he had expected he might, all things considered.

There must have been some change to him because Diana tore her attention away from her conversation with Victor that had started while Steve wasn't looking and turned, her gaze finding Bruce who looked away from them immediately.

"I'm not hungry," he muttered and walked out of the kitchen.

"What's gotten into him?" Barry asked, craning his neck to look around Clark.

"He's not much of a morning person," Victor noted.

"It's 10.30," Alfred pointed out, glancing over his shoulder with a slight frown creasing his forehead.

"And we're having donuts for breakfast," Arthur added, plucking one from the box before it was too late, suddenly awfully pleased with that fact by the looks of it.

That seemed to have lifted everyone's spirits. Still, Steve's eyes lingered for another moment on the spot vacated by Bruce, his ears straining to catch any sound coming from the Batcave even though it ended up being futile.

Diana's hand brushed against his and he turned to her, reading an unspoken question in her eyes, two faint lines lodged between her brows.

He smiled, and the tightness in his chest easing by the second. "You were right," he said and jerked his chin toward the commotion and everyone speaking at once and the normalcy of it all that had snuck up on him unannounced, and suddenly he found himself in the middle of something he'd never expected to be a part of. Not after purposely running away from it for so long. He shook his head, trying to hold back a smile. "Two dozen _was_ a good idea."

And then it was mayhem, and because it was Saturday and a late breakfast wasn't out of the ordinary, and somehow everyone was around, the air filled with the smell of coffee and sizzling bacon and scrambled eggs and conversations about everything and nothing while everyone talked over one another without much care for being heard. Napkins and salt and butter and the remaining donuts were passed around and the coffee machine was refilled, twice.

Diana picked up her cup and walked around the table where Arthur and Barry were in a heated argument over something she didn't want to get into until she reached Clark who was piling food onto his plate.

"Hey," he looked up at her.

"Hey," she peered at his meal choices with a smile. "What brings you here so early?" She glanced over her shoulder at the conversation that was only a step away from turning into a screaming match. "And don't tell me that it's the company."

Clark grinned. "What if it's the food?"

She scoffed. "Even more ridiculous. I know what Lois's cooking is like."

He found a fork in one of the drawers under the kitchen island. "She has an emergency article to finish," he explained, poking at his eggs. "Although she asked to say hi nonetheless. So, hi." He observed the near fight happening at the table and Alfred's disapproving expression and Steve's open amusement, and shook his head. "How do you live here?"

"I don't," Diana reminded him. "I live in Paris."

"And you come here to better appreciate peace and quiet?"

She looked at the group before her fondly. "Just another perk of doing what we're doing, no?"

"I hope the museum is paying for it," he chuckled around a forkful of food.

"I file it as an overtime," she responded with a laugh.

"You're in a good mood," Clark observed, and her eyes moved involuntarily toward Steve who was chatting with Victor, completely ignoring the drama unfolding before them at the other end of the table, her lips tugging up at the corners on the will of their own. "Oh," Clark breathed, an eyebrow arched. "It's like that now, huh?"

Diana's first instinct was to deny it, brush his comment off. After all, it had been less than a day, and the change in her relationship with Steve felt new and fragile and raw somehow. A fierce need to protect it at all costs that filled her chest was all-consuming as she tried to breathe around it. She wanted, in that moment, to hold onto the long-lost feeling of belonging just for a while longer, to not have to share it with anyone.

She wasn't going to keep them a secret, of course. If it took Barry all of two seconds to figure out what was going on, she was certain that the rest of the team wouldn't be far behind. For one thing, one look at Steve was enough to see that something was different, his smile wider than it ever was in all those weeks that he had been here and so radiant that it could never fool anyone. She had a strong suspicion that she looked no better than him, her very soul unfurling with every passing moment. A dead giveaway, no less. If nothing else, everyone was bound to notice them sleeping in the same room from now on.

Her mind drifted back to something Victor had said to her before, about her knowing the world better than the rest of them and still looking awfully lost. And that time with Arthur last week when he found her sitting on the deck and asked her she wanted to talk. He looked incredibly out of his element when he did it, and Diana knew that it was affection and loyalty that made him go for that question instead of offering her a beer – something that he considered a fine bonding strategy. She never said yes but it didn't seem to discourage him.

And then there was Alfred who noted that she deserved her happily-ever-after more than anyone else, which, Diana knew, was wistful and almost like a forgiveness – on Bruce's behalf, she suspected.

They would see. How could they not?

Yet, if she was speaking to someone other than Clark, she would say no, try to change the subject. She loved the League dearly, but letting people into her heart grew difficult as time passed. She only had one, after all, and it was prone to breaking when she least expected it.

But Clark – Clark was different. He might not know the loss the way she did, or even the way Lois did, but he understood how rare and precious it was to find someone who saw past their difference from everyone else, and how sometimes you needed to hold onto them with all your might so that they wouldn't slip away from you. She could hear it in his voice, see it in the way he was around Lois.

Come to think of it, he and Steve had quite a bit in common.

Clark was watching her, she could feel it, and after a moment, Diana tore her gaze away from her Captain – lest her desire to shove everyone out of the way and kiss him senseless right there and then until they were both breathless and dazed overtake her – and turned to him, smiling, unable to pretend and shaking her head because there was no need for words.

"Careful there," Clark noted with a muffled chuckle, still savouring his breakfast. "You glowing like that might burn us all."

Diana nudged him playfully with her elbow and gave him a look, but didn't have it in her to argue. She could feel it, too, the lightness the likes of which she could barely recall. There still were things she needed to think through, like her mother's revelation about the side of her that she never knew existed – and learning those truths randomly and when she wasn't prepared was starting to wear a little thin. But that was a consideration for later, one that she was going to store away like many others that came before it until the time was right.

"Are you going to tell me what you're really doing here?" She asked when he put the plate away and the debate at the table had settled into something more civil.

Clark's smile slipped a little, a frown creeping onto this face. "I heard what happened here other night," he responded. "There was nothing in the press, though."

Her jaw clenched at the memory. "Amanda Waller must be working hard to keep it from leaking out to the public," she muttered, Waller's name sounding sour on her tongue.

"You think she's behind it?" He asked.

Diana shook her head. "I don't know. I don't trust her. So far, every word she said was only half-truth, if even that."

"Were they really trying to make meta-humans?" He asked, and the disbelief and doubt in his voice mirrored her own. That idea seemed as outlandish to her as playing god – something that people never seemed to grow tired of even though they never managed to so anything but hurt themselves in the process.

Her expression hardened. "It seemed like it. Victor's father is going to try and get us more information, but he found no records so far, no proof of anything happening there at all, and the power outage that awoke them in the first place seemed to have erased the data on the chambers they were kept in."

Clark nodded, his lips pursed tight. "If someone is trying to design meta-humans, it can only mean one thing-"

"That they're doing it for a reason," she finished, dull anger flaring up in her chest.

Things happened, and sometimes they happened for a reason, and sometimes they led to people like Victor and Barry coming to exist – something that she would personally be grateful for for eternity. But nothing good ever came out of making enhanced soldiers. Of turning people into more than they were.

"Whatever it is, it's not happening," Clark said firmly as though reading her thoughts.

Diana nodded somewhat absently, but the determination on her matched his. "It's not."

"We'll get to the bottom of it," he promised.

"We will."

"Keep me in the loop," he asked. "Wish I was there."

"It was a bit of a last-minute emergency," she explained apologetically.

"Thank god," he grinned. "For a moment there I thought that you didn't like me anymore."

Diana laughed. "You have your own domain to look after," she reminded him.

He smirked. "Yeah, well, it's nice to play with the team now and then."

"You'll always be a part of the team," she promised.

Clark bumped his shoulder against hers. "And speaking of which," he sighed. "I need to find Bruce."

"Try the Batcave," she suggested.

He nodded and started to leave, but then stopped and look at her. "I never saw you like this," he said. "The whole… happiness thing, it really suits you."

She grinning and rolled her eyes just a little, thinking that she couldn't remember seeing herself like that in a very, very long time, either.

Once Clark was gone and everyone was sufficiently distracted, Diana walked over to Steve who was putting his plate in the dishwasher and tugged at the sleeve of his jacket, pulling him into the hallway, away from the prying eyes and curious questions. He followed without hesitation.

She glanced over her shoulder to make sure that were alone, and when she turned back to him, he was already crowding her space, his arms circling her body.

"Hi," he whispered.

"Hi," Diana smiled, tilting her face up to his. "I missed you."

Behind them, the kitchen erupted in a boisterous laughter, the voices of the men rising in excitement over something or the other.

Steve leaned closer to her, ignoring them entirely, his mouth meeting hers half-way. "I missed you, too."

xoox

Clark jogged down two flights of stairs, choosing to forgo the elevator, his gaze scanning the place that was easily bigger than the above-ground area of the house, taking in the assortment of devices, the almost clinical feel to it, amplified somehow by the fluorescent lights above his head.

It was quiet except for metallic banging coming from the corner where Bruce was standing on a stepladder neat Knightcrawler's massive body.

"Stop taking your frustration out on a car," Clark said.

Bruce ignored him and hit Crawler with a hammer again, the sound of it ricocheting off the walls and echoing under the ceiling.

"What should I be taking it out on?" He asked without turning.

"What crawled under your skin?"

"Regrets."

"Pray tell, Bruce," Clark folded his arms over his chest, eyeing him from below.

Bruce glanced at him briefly, but then only shook his head, "Forget it."

"You can't change her mind, you know that, right?"

Bruce paused but didn't relent. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

 _Like hell you don't_.

"You wanna try that again?" Clark slid his hands into his pockets and squinted up at the other man. "We are not as stupid as you might think we are."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce grunted. He hit the Crawler again, the sound of it almost deafening, and swore quietly.

His tone made Clark's hackles stand on end. "What is your problem, Bruce?"

"What is it, indeed," he murmured under his breath.

"She is with Steve."

His words made Bruce freeze, his body going completely rigid.

One didn't need to be a genius to notice the way he was around Diana - softer around the edges, almost mellow somehow. One simply needed to not be blind. There was a great number of things that Bruce kept close to his vest, but his feelings for her wasn't one of them. He had that way of speaking to her, of listening to her more intently then the rest of them. It was like she calmed something inside of him with her very presence, and had the situation been different, maybe it could have meant something to them both.

But it wasn't because the next thing they knew Steve was back and Diana's eyes were on him since, and it became very clear very fast to all involved parties that whatever could have happened between her and Bruce was never meant to be.

And now Bruce was hurting and quite possibly hating himself for making one mistake that turned his world inside out and killed any hopes he might have had before they ever blossomed into something he could hold on to. And Clark felt bad for him. As a friend and a teammate, and as a person who was not unfamiliar with heartbreak. He was really and genuinely sorry.

Yet, it still wasn't a good enough excuse for Bruce's behaviour earlier. None of this was Diana's fault, and even less so Steve's. From what little Clark knew about their history, he truly believed that they had walked through hell itself in every way he could think of. They deserved to have that beautiful thing that was unfolding between them now, regardless of what someone else thought or felt.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Bruce asked flatly. "Diana's personal life is none of my—"

Clark bristled. "You said yes to the deal with Waller to piss her off because they were broken up, and now you're throwing a tantrum because they're back together?" He cut him off and shook his head in disgust. "Can you not think about yourself for two goddamn seconds?" Bruce flinched but it was not enough to make him stop. He pointed toward the stairs for emphasis. "Have you seen her up there?" He demanded. "When was the last time she was this happy?"

He didn't even realize that he raised his voice until the echo of it hit him back. He grimaced.

"This has nothing-" Bruce began.

"She deserves this, Bruce. Surely, she deserves it more than your mind games because she's in love with him. She's always been in love-"

"Are you done?" Bruce cut him off sharply, whipping around, cold anger pooling in his eyes and his voice a dangerous growl. "Did she send you here to be her advocate?" Clark said nothing. "Thought so." For a long moment, they stared at once another, and Clark thought, for a second, that the other man was doing to charge at him. Instead, Bruce pressed his lips together and exhaled slowly, regaining his control. "I had someone following me," he said quietly, almost unwillingly. "About a week ago. Not since them, though."

Clark's brows pulled together, anger seeping out of him instantly. He stared at the Batman, confused. "Who?"

"I don't know." Bruce straightened up, looking down at Clark from the height of the Knightcrawler, a frown creasing his forehead. He climbed down and walked over to the work bench to toss the hammer into the tool box. "And I asked, trust me."

Clark turned, following him with his eyes. "I'm sure you did."

"And he said that nothing that I could possibly to do to him could be worse than whoever hired him would if he opened his mouth."

"I don't even want to imagine."

Bruce shoot him an irritated look but chose to ignore his quip. He rubbed his forehead. "Needless to say, I was intrigued."

"So, what happened?"

"I let him go, and I tried following him, but he…"

"Escaped." Clark glanced over his shoulder toward the stairs. "Did you tell the team?"

Bruce shook his head with a sour grimace.

"Not even Diana?" Clark pressed.

"She seems to be otherwise occupied these days," Bruce muttered.

He actually did want to tell her, as recently as last night, but then it turned out that she wasn't around. Not till this morning. Along with Steve Trevor who was still wearing the same clothes he wore when Bruce saw him yesterday. It wasn't hard to put two and two together and he had spent the past hour or so trying not to think about it.

"Besides, I don't even know if it had anything to do with the League," he added, going for a dismissive tone.

"When doesn't it?" Clark breathed. He rubbed the back of his neck, pensive.

"He was following me as me, not the Batman," Bruce pointed out.

"There's no shortage of people who know the truth. Amanda Waller, for one thing."

"Why would she do it?"

"Why would she put nano bombs in people's skulls?" Clark countered. "You have to tell the team."

After a moment, Bruce nodded. "I know."

"I actually came to tell you that you can pick up whatever's left of your Volvo," Clark added, and Bruce look up at him with interest. "The Metropolis police doesn't need it anymore." He paused. "It wasn't an accident. They found traces of explosive residue all over the underbelly of the car. Although I don't think they'll put it into the official statement."

Bruce smirked. "Been listening outside the police station windows again?"

"You're welcome," Clark shrugged.

"You could have called."

"I heard about what happened in S.T.A.R. Labs." His small smile faded. "Talk to them. Something's up."

Bruce nodded, his face turning grim. "Something's always up."

xoox

The history of Diana's people was full of tales of beauty and passion, greed and revenge, and impossible, consuming love that moved mountains and bound lovers to one another for all of eternity, their hearts forever beating in unison. Fascinated as she was with those stories as a young girl, Diana couldn't help but look at them with a degree of skepticism. Surely they were exaggerated, weren't they? The pragmatism of her mother, the steady logic of her aunt made her look at them through a prism of practicality. Surely the ultimate happiness written in the stars could not possibly be real.

Stretched on her side next to Steve who was sprawled on his stomach across her bed, she thought of how meeting him made her reconsider that notion. It was possible, and her chest felt so full with it that she could barely stand it.

His eyes were shut, but he wasn't asleep, she knew it. The pattern of his breathing was not quite right despite being even and deep. He was merely regaining his bearings. Her fingers itched to push through his hair, trace the lines of his face, skim over his cheeks. Diana bit her lip, trying to stop her smile from spreading even wider, ridiculously pleased with herself for making him need some time to recover.

She wanted him. Even after a few hours in his arms that had left them both spent and perfectly satisfied with one another, she still wanted him so badly that it was making something inside of her ache. She had wanted other people before, some - deeply and passionately, others - with longing for the love that had left her with a gaping hole in her very soul that threatened to turn her inside out with every breath she took, seeking a semblance of what she had lost. They meant something to her, too. Something, but not enough.

With Steve, however… with Steve it was entirely all-consuming and throbbing in her blood like a second heartbeat. It should have went away, she was thinking absently, studying him. They had been together for an extended period of time after the war. Wouldn't have their desperate need for one another ebbed then? Or _since_ then? It had been so long. A whole lifetime, even. Yet, she couldn't remember ever feeling otherwise since the first time they had lain together on the night when the world was quiet and dusted with snow.

No one had ever made her feel the way he did. No one had ever made her feel so wanted and needed and cherished and utterly adored, and she craved it. Craved it from him. Always would, perhaps.

She wondered if Steve felt the same way. If they were going to wake up one day and not want each other as hungrily as they did now, as they always had. If there would ever come a moment when she'd see him smile and not feel a sharp jolt of want shoot through her. If she'd wake up one morning and not yearn for his touch.

Maybe so, Diana thought. Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe one day their desire for one another wouldn't be so insatiable, so intense, but Diana loved it now, loved that nearly electrifying look he would give her sometimes that never failed to make her want to tear his clothes off – seven decades ago as well as now.

Steve cracked one eye open, and then another, and then he grinned at her, and just like that a spark of need surged through her like a bolt of lightning, stealing her breath away.

"See anything you like?" He drawled lazily, his smile cheeky.

She still wasn't quite certain how they made it through the rest of the afternoon. The dinner was a fun affair, fueled by Barry's incessant chatter and Arthur's quips and Victor's dry comments while Alfred attempted to keep it civil and then had to give up halfway through. And while Bruce barely looked at her and his responses to any of them were monosyllabic, she was glad that he joined them, choosing not to notice the tension hanging between them. Her own attention was scattered, snatching bits of conversation here and there but not paying much attention as all she could think of was the man sitting next to her, close enough to make the kitchen feel a little too overcrowded for her liking.

Diana excused herself right after they cleaned up after the meal, wondering how long it would take Steve to figure out that she was gone and do the same. Three minutes, as it turned out, was all it took him to end up outside of her door before she was pulling him into her room, craving to feel his hands everywhere on her body and trying so, so hard to be quieter than she wanted to be.

But that was hours ago, and the house was still and silent now, and she was sated and happy, drowning in blissful contentment wrapped around them like a cloud.

Diana laughed. "Maybe." She leaned down to kiss his shoulder, her mouth lingering on his skin just long enough for him to go still.

She smiled to herself, feeling his gaze on her, trialing over the outline of her body under the sheet. The words he'd said to her when they were making love floated back to her mind, making her skin tingle. Promised and confessions and her name repeated time and time again like a prayer. At this rate, they were not going to leave this room for a while – which, quite frankly, was more than fine with her.

Diana brushed his hair back from his face and kissed his forehead before stretching beside him again, her head resting on the heel of her hand. Her eyes traveled over his features. She was very much aware of her own attractiveness, and the fact that Steve found her beautiful - he had told her that, too, repeatedly - but looking at him now, his hair mussed and his eyes dazed and his mouth curled into a lazy smile, she couldn't think of how impossibly handsome he was. It was no wonder perhaps that her waking hours were consumed by the need to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until they were both dazed and drunk on one another.

"You know," Steve started after a few moments, studying her, "I kind of assumed that you'd go home – to the island, I mean – after we… after I-" He left the sentence hanging between them, the guilt and grief still too thick to work their way out of his throat, a half-question that Diana understood nonetheless.

Her expression turned wistful, the way if often did when she thought of Themyscira.

The thought crossed her mind, but it was fleeting. She didn't belong there anymore, not for a long time. If she were to come back, she wasn't sure what good might come out of it.

She shook her head, her fingers tracing absently the seam of the sheet. "I couldn't," she admitted. "It reminded me too much of you."

Steve blinked, surprised. "It reminded you of _me_?" He repeated dumbly, his brows knitting together in confusion. "More than here?"

The tightness in her chest eased at the sight of his expression. She pursed her lips together around a smile. Hera help her, she loved this man beyond anything she could ever imagine.

Oddly enough, she couldn't bring herself to go back for that very reason. It was easy to stay busy in his world, one disaster always rolling straight into another, keeping her mind focused. But on Themyscira, there would be a shadow of him following her around the palace, his voice still echoing in the cavernous rooms, his presence subtle but real. She knew she would never be able to step into the kitchen without hearing Steve's voice there as he tried to sneak a treat from under the watchful eye of the cooks, or even wake up in her own bed without feeling his arm draped over her, or better yet – his mouth moving over her skin.

She didn't know if she'd be able to exist there. Didn't want the pity of her mother or her sisters, either. Diana was always aware that there was a risk to bringing him to the island with her, but she never could have thought that it would be one of this kind. It was so much easier to get lost here, to start anew without feeling trapped.

She told him that, watching his face grow pained. She reached over to smooth the crease between his brows with her finger, the tenderness for him tight in her chest.

"I wanted to be useful," she said. "How could I have helped if I went back?"

He nodded without much conviction.

"Steve?"

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"Don't," she shook her head again and leaned forward to kiss him. "Don't do this to yourself. My choices are mine and mine only, and you have paid your dues in full."

She started to pull away, and he rose on his elbow, chasing her mouth. "Thank you," he murmured, finding her gaze again. "For this. For everything."

"I love you," Diana murmured, savouring the words in her mouth. It had been so long since she was able to say them freely, without holding back, without second-guessing herself. He smiled against her mouth, leaving her heart fluttering madly in her chest.

"Diana…"

Her hand curled over the back of his neck, fingers pushing into his hair as her mouth opened against his, deepening the kiss. She could feel his whole body respond to her touch, a low sound of appreciation forming in the back of his throat. Her heartbeat stuttered momentarily.

Steve's palm closed over her jaw. Her fingers curled around his wrist, his pulse fast and frantic against her skin. He kissed her, and he kissed her, and when they broke apart, they were both breathless, and he was smiling, and she was too, and if there was a moment in her future when she wouldn't want to do this every moment of her life as greedily as she did now, Diana couldn't quite imagine it. Not yet, and not for a long time, perhaps. If ever.

Her gaze locked with Steve's, she turned her face to press a kiss to the palm of his hand, watching playfulness drain from his eyes as they growing dark in an instant. And at the sight of it, her own desire sparked again with such intensity that she had to remind herself to breathe. His gaze drifted down to her lips. She watched his breath hitch in his chest, nearly intoxicated with the power to be able to inspire this kind of response in him. Without hesitation, he dipped his head to her once more, planting a kiss on her chin and then slowly and very deliberately dragging his mouth across her cheek and toward her neck.

"Wanted to do this for so long," he murmured into her skin.

She tilted her head back, feeling his smile when he nuzzled into her throat, and it would've been so very easy to pull him over her and have him press her into the sheets, making her forget the world. She turned her head, fingers buried into his hair, and his mouth was right there, capturing hers and kissing her slowly. His hand slid beneath the sheet and around her body, palm splayed on the small of her back. She had wanted to this for a very long time, too.

"I thought you were tired," Diana whispered, smiling, when he pulled back for breath.

Steve quirked an eyebrow at her. "Said who?" He grinned, his gaze sliding suggestively down her body and making it very hard for her to do a noble thing and let him rest when the only thing she wanted was to love him again and again until she convinced herself that she wasn't imagining any of this. Until she stopped being scared.

They had time, she reminded herself. She inhaled slowly and willed panic that kept building up in her chest away. They had all the time in the world now.

With a hand on his shoulder, Diana pushed him effortlessly down to lie on his back, ignoring a wounded look of protest on his face and an indignant, "Hey!" Steve pressed his lips together, a displeased frown making an appearance on his face. Her heart flipped in her chest, her mouth curving into a smile at the sight of it, so much so that she couldn't resist leaning down to kiss his pout away.

Immediately, his arm curved around her, and even though he was nowhere near strong enough to hold her there should she have chosen to pull away, she let him tug her close until she was half-draped over his chest, pressed to him curve for curve.

"That's better," he breathed.

Diana brushed her lips to his jaw. "Do you think it will ever go away?" She asked softly, her voice swallowed by the darkness around them.

"What?" He echoed, tracing his fingers up and down her spine.

"The wanting."

He stayed quiet for a moment. "Would you want it to?"

"No." She lifted her head and kissed his chest, her tongue tracing a scar running from his shoulder toward his collarbone.

Steve inhaled sharply and cursed stiffly under his breath, his fingers twitching on her skin, and she smiled. Sometimes, it was just too easy.

He didn't say anything for a few seconds as his heart hammered away under her palm.

"I don't think I'll even want you any less than I want you now. Than I've _ever_ wanted you. I can't—Christ, I can't remember _not_ wanting you, Diana." He let out a long breath. His eyes were trained on the ceiling but his hand never stopped moving over the expanse of her back. "That night in Metropolis, in Clark's apartment, when I saw you in those, ah… black…"

"Victoria's Secret," she supplied helpfully.

"Well, there were no secrets left, to my memory," he mumbled.

"You liked it?" Diana asked him, amused.

Steve cleared his throat, the sound of it reverberating into her. "That's not the word I'd use," he said diplomatically.

She smirked and made a mental note to wear something for him soon. Maybe tomorrow. All of her best sets were in Paris, but there was at least that one and she knew he wouldn't complain. If memory served her right, he was staring at her slack-jawed for a good fifteen seconds that night, his eyes sliding over her body, before he remembered to turn away, and unplanned as it was, she did not mind his reaction in the slightest.

"Yeah well, you looked… I don't think I even knew how to breathe." He continued. "All I wanted to do was cross that room and…" His voice trailed off, but there was no need for words, she could so very clearly picture about a thousand scenarios, all of which ended with his hands everywhere she wanted them to be.

"I wish you did," Diana whispered into his skin.

She couldn't even begin to express how much she wished he had done that.

This was good though, the closeness, the warmth of his body against hers. Truth be told, she could barely remember not wanting him either, the time of uncertainty and confusion so far gone that it was all but a faint dream now.

Steve sighed. "Look, about Bruce…" he started.

"I'll talk to him," she promised, her fingers running absently over his chest, paining the defined lines of his muscles. She didn't seem to know how to stop touching him, still unable to believe that this was real, and the elation was making her head spin.

"He's in love with you," he said softly.

"He's not-" she protected, looking up at him, but cut off when she saw him stare at the wall across from them.

"Takes one to know one," Steve noted, his fingers threading through her hair.

Diana pushed up on her elbow and shifted to fold her arm across his chest, resting her chin on the back of her hand as she watched him. He was hard to read when she first met him, years of being a spy and having to pretend being someone that he was not and living a life of a hundred different people instead of his own left a mark that was near impossible to erase. A hundred years later, and he finessed that skill to near perfection. Perhaps, it was not a bad thing for someone living his life. She only wished that he would let her in.

"Does it bother you?" She asked quietly. "That we're here?"

Steve turned to her. He reached over to loop a strand of her hair around her ear, tracing his fingertips along her cheek. She was so beautiful it made his heart ache. He thought sometimes, back in the day, and probably not without reason, that her smile alone could stop the wars and heal the wounded and fix the world the way nothing and no one else could. He wondered if he'd ever think otherwise.

Yes, it did bother him. He believed Diana when she said that she loved him, that she wanted to be with him, but Steve still couldn't help but wonder what could have or would have happened a week, or a month, or a year from now if he didn't crash right back into her life again. It was small and petty, and he hated himself for even imagining it when all she had done in the past 24 hours was show time and time again that it was him she chose to be with.

Steve Trevor was not a jealous man, and there was nothing to be jealous of to begin with, but he prided himself on his strategic thinking, he was taught to plan ten steps ahead, and there was a nagging voice in the back of his mind that given the right circumstances, she and Bruce wouldn't have taken those steps _away_ from one another, necessarily. If nothing else, Bruce Wayne certainly thought so too, if the cold glares that he offered Steve were any indication.

"I think it bothers him," Steve offered, which was perhaps the best not-answer he could think of.

"I'll talk to him," Diana repeated. She tilted her head to brush a kiss to his chin. "Bruce is… pragmatic. He will understand."

Steve nodded and smiled, and her heart squeezed again. If she was going to react like this to every single one of his facial expressions, they were in trouble. Her gaze wandered over his features, taking in faint lines in the corners of his eyes, the bow of his mouth curved into a half-smile that she could never tire of kissing, the slope of his nose and the pale shadow of his stubble. The very same one that left raw marks on her inner thighs earlier – something that she found oddly appealing, regretful to know that they would fade away almost instantly. She wouldn't have minding if they stayed.

She bit her lip, and Steve's eyebrow crept up as though he could hear her think, and just like that she could feel the familiar tension start to build between them.

They were definitely in trouble.

"You should rest," she whispered, her hand pushing his hair back from his face.

"Not tired," he shook his head stubbornly.

"We barely slept last night," Diana reminded him.

The man did have admirable vigour and stamina, and she was fully intended to catch up on every moment that they had spent apart, but his eyes were drooping and she knew he was holding on with all his might to stay awake, and it wasn't like she needed him to actually keel over at some point.

"And I enjoyed every second of it," Steve promised, all chest-puffed proud.

"You don't need to prove anything to me, Steve," she said. And added, smiling, "You already did that, if I recall correctly. Multiple times. And you were very convincing."

He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat and squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing them with his fingers.

If she had told him that the colour rising up his cheeks and his inability to form coherent sentences was something that she found incredibly attractive, he would probably think that she was laughing at him. Maybe even scowl at her, yet here she was, trying to figure out if there was anything better than his flustered face. And so far the answer was no, there really and truly wasn't. Steve certainly was a man of contrasts. He knew full well how to make her world explode in brilliant colours, and then he would get shy about her pointing it out back to him, which only made her want to mention it again and again.

Biting her lip around a smile, she tilted her head, dubious, and he conceded with a small sigh. "This is real, right? Us. I mean, I had that dream before..." he scrunched his face and puffed out his breath.

She grinned and draped her leg over one of his and stretched over him to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his neck.

She grinned and draped her leg over one of his, stretching over him to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his neck.

"I didn't catch that," she murmured when he cursed again.

They had both changed in their time apart, and she was yet to learn the new him, but this small detail about him remained the same, and she found herself being more than a little pleased about it.

"Goddammit, Diana…" he muttered with just a tiny bit of exasperation and a great deal of purpose.

And then he grabbed her wrist and rolled them over, pinning her to the sheets. She gasped in surprise, playfulness draining out of her eyes replaced by heat.

Steve ducked his head. "Not tired," he repeated against the hollow of her throat.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

Very pleased, indeed.

 **To be continued...**

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 **A/n: Reviews** **are amazing and I will love you forever for them!**

 **Also, tell me what you think about WW84 spoilers and photos and everything? Because I am losing my mind!**

 **(Who is screaming? No one is screaming!)**


	14. Chapter 14

_**Author's note:** __Hey, look who is still alive. I know it's been a while and technically I'm still traveling but I didn't want to make you guys wait for two more weeks or so, so here we go! Hope you will enjoy it_ _and please let me know what you think!_

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 _Gotham, 2017_

Slipping into their old patterns was the easiest thing. One day, the world seemed to be falling apart before Steve's eyes and nothing made sense, and then suddenly it was like the past several decades had never happened. There was comfort to familiarity, to knowing each other enough for the adjustment to the change in their relationship to not be grating, but there was also a thrill to discovering small details about one another that had come to be since 1952.

While Steve remained a drifter he had always been, Diana's life turned out being stitched together of habits and routines that fascinated him to no end. She went running almost every morning, claiming that it helped her keep her head clear. There was a path circling the lake, and even though it had nothing on the trails crazing through Themyscira, she seemed to enjoy it well enough. Although, if Steve woke up before she left, she wouldn't put up a fight if he tried to cajole her back into bed. He couldn't get enough of her – the sound of her voice, her laughter, the way her fingers would sometimes skim casually over his body and set his blood on fire.

Even away from Paris, she worked a lot, sending emails and making phone calls in more languages than he could recognize, effortlessly juggling her duties as the Curator of Antiques with her life as a heart and soul of the League. If she had allowed it, he would be more than happy to spend his days watching her, the easy grace with which she moved about the house, the way she spoke to the dealers and her assistant and the other Curators about something or other that made his mind reel.

On top of that, despite having an affinity for tea, she seemed to have a special relationship with the coffee maker in the kitchen that only tolerated her and Alfred and couldn't stand everyone else, and she could type texts faster than Barry (at his human speed), much to the frustration of the latter.

It took Steve all of three days to pick up on all of that, and when he oh so proudly laid out his observations to her at some point, she called him 'such a spy', which made him laugh until his stomach hurt.

The old things had come back, too. Those that remained dormant in his mind – like what side of the bed she preferred to sleep on, the way she tended to reach for his hand without thinking, how she tilted her head when she was curious or puzzled. All the details that he missed about her that made him ache on the inside for so long that he thought he would wither and die from a heartbreak.

She was his Diana still, the woman that he had loved for so long that he could no longer remember what it was like not to, but also so much more that Steve could hardly comprehend how one person could contain all the wonder and beauty of different worlds within her. A clash of times and contrasts. To him, she was still a Princess of the Amazons who once got confused by a revolving door, but now she was also a woman who used emojis in text messages and easily understood pop culture references. She still read the works of the Greek philosophers, _in_ Greek, but was also fond of _Lord of the Rings_ and the novels of Hemingway and Huxley. It was, he had to admit, a lot to wrap his mind around.

It was new, but also not, and he loved every moment of pulling everything that they were and all that they were meant to be to the surface, watching a puzzle fall into a complete picture. She was open and honest and unapologetic about her feelings, and the onslaught of quips that Steve half-expected from the members of the League never came, although he was tempted to ask if there was ever another bet going on, and maybe he and Diana deserved to be in on it. Except it didn't really matter because he had already won a jackpot, and who cared about the rest?

"It wasn't permanent, you know," she told him one night, tracing lines on his skin with his fingers, her cheek resting on his collarbone.

"What wasn't?" Steve asked, sleepy, too sated and relaxed to think straight.

"I'm not weaker than I was before." Her voice was soft, but he went still, hanging on to every word, suddenly very awake, his hand that was tracing the line of her spine frozen just beneath her shoulder blades. "I thought about it, about what you said, and I suppose it's not impossible that my mother was right, but if bringing you back cost me some strength, it came back again."

He didn't say anything for a while, just stared at the ceiling, wondering if they had wasted all this time for nothing, if he had actually ruined nearly seven decades for them both, or if she only managed to heal properly because he was not around. There was no way of knowing it for sure, and he knew that dwelling on it would only cause pain to them both, but it was hard, so very hard to not think of it. She wouldn't lie to him, and she wouldn't have said that if she wasn't sure.

Where it left him was another thing altogether.

As if the list of unforgivable things he had done wasn't long enough already.

Diana lifted her head and pulled just far enough away from him to look him in the face.

"What are you thinking?" She asked, reading his inner turmoil chase across his features, anguish and regret mixed into something that had no name.

"But what if the next time-" he started, the damned habit of thinking ten steps ahead because back in the day it was his only way to survive rearing its ugly head again.

She touched her thumb to his lower lip and smiled that divine smile of hers. "Then so be it."

He didn't speak of it again, vowing silently to himself to live forever if he had to. If that was what it took to keep her safe.

xoox

A few days after moving into Diana's room, Steve woke up just after dawn, his eyes raw and his mind as foggy as the early November day outside the glass wall of her bedroom, pale wisps clinging to the remnants of frozen grass. It was early still, but Diana's side of the bed was empty, and even half-sleep, he missed her desperately.

Steve ran his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. He buried his nose into her pillow, hoping for the slumber to claim him once more, but it never came. He blinked his eyes open, slowly and unwillingly, waiting for his head to clear. There was a sound that he first mistook for the ever-present patter of rain against the glass, but when he turned his head, he found Diana sitting at the desk to the left from him, her fingers flying over the keyboard of her laptop.

For a few moments, he simply watched her, taking her in, all of her so achingly beautiful that he wondered half the time if he was dreaming. One of her legs was tucked beneath her thigh, and her hair was loose, falling down her shoulders in heavy waves, and she was wearing nothing but her underwear and a tank top - _a very thin one_ \- and he decided that next to having her in bed next to him and without any clothes whatsoever, this was the second best view he could possibly wake up to.

And then she looked up and saw him study her with sleepily eyes, breaking into a smile so bright and wonderful that it made his chest constrict fiercely. And Steve thought, _I could never love anyone more than I love this woman_.

"Hey," he croaked, stifling a yawn.

"Morning," she whispered, seemingly no longer caring about whatever it was that kept her so wildly occupied not a few seconds ago.

"Why are you up?" Steve grimaced a little. "S'early."

And they had a late night. A very last night.

"Work," she responded, amused, as she watched him fighting a losing battle. "Go back to sleep, Steve."

He rolled onto his side, claiming her half of the bed and murmured, "C'mere," in that thick, sleep-laced voice that never failed to undo her in the best way. He stretched and tucked Diana's pillow under his cheek, watching her gaze trail along the outline of his body beneath the sheet slung over his waist, weighing the options. He knew the look. He liked that look very much. He particularly liked the things that often followed soon afterwards.

"I do have responsibilities, you know that, right?" Diana pointed out, an eyebrow arched and her chin resting on the heel of her hand propped on her desk.

"Mm-hm," he hummed noncommittally, barely bothering to contain a smile that threatened to split his face in half. "At 7 in the morning?"

"It's past noon in Paris," she countered, clearly enjoying his impatience.

He scrunched his face, struggling for an argument that could tramp her sense of obligation in favour of something, well, less productive but much more fun. It was far too early for that, though. Thinking, that is. His thoughts were tumbling aimlessly into one another without much aim or purpose.

And so, he opted for looking at her, taking in the glint in her eyes and a quirk of her eyebrow and the way her tank top was hugging her body just right even though it did seem entirely excessive, all things considered.

How on earth he managed to survive without her for so long was beyond him.

At last, Diana caved in, never a fan of this game. She uncured from her seat and crossed the room, padding barefoot across the soft carpet and then lowering down on the edge of the bed beside him. The mattress dipped beneath the weight of her body, and Steve moved closer to her, reaching for her hand. He kissed her knuckles, watching her watch him with that small secret smile of hers that never failed to make him feel like he was losing his mind.

And then he dropped the pretences too because resisting the temptation was too bloody much for this early hour. He pushed up to sit and tugged her to him until she was close enough for his mouth to brush against hers.

"Hi," he said again.

"Hi," she whispered, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

God, he loved her smile. That smile alone could end wars and bring peace to the world, he thought.

His hand pushed into her hair, tangling in her black mane, the strands soft as silk between his fingers, bridging what little space was left between them. Her response was immediate, her body leaning into his touch and, encouraged, Steve bit gently at her bottom lip, coaxing a low moan out of her. She sighed softly against his lips. A wave of heat seared through him, blinding in its intensity.

"Steve," she started without conviction when his lips moved across her cheek.

"Hm?" His mouth latched on the underside of her jaw, his thumb running slow circles on the back of her neck. "It's too early to be out of bed and wear so many clothes."

Her fingers curled around his wrist, although in protest or encouragement he wasn't sure. She didn't stop him though, so he hoped it was the latter.

"I'm practically naked," Diana argued, amused.

"Not naked enough," he murmured, nuzzling into the tender spot behind her ear. "Let's fix that."

"Steve."

She drew just far enough away to be able to find his gaze, her hand resting on his ribs and making the early-morning process of putting his thoughts together into something more or less coherent nearly impossible.

Still, he sighed, although not relinquishing the physical contact, his hand merely dropping to rest on her waist. "So, what's this about?" Steve asked, his eyes darting toward her laptop that glowed in the dimness of a gloomy morning.

"A quarterly report and some shipment forms that needed my approval," Diana explained, her fingers strumming absently along his skin. "Pierre is worried about the exhibition we're opening later this month."

Pierre, her assistant. The very one who somehow always knew to call at the most inconvenient times – even more so than Barry who texted pretty much nonstop, and it was often very had to tell whether it was an emergency or a new cat meme. Having been instantly added to his contact list was an interesting experience, Steve had found out very fast.

With Pierre, on the other hand, everything was an emergency. And maybe it was, but Steve had yet to figure out how exactly he expected Diana to fix them all from across half of the world. He was curious, though. He had seen Diana in many roles – a woman, a lover, a warrior. Yet the idea of her working at the Louvre – _the_ Louvre – intrigued him greatly and he wondered what she was like as a boss and how she was different in that role from the Amazonian demi-goddess he was far more familiar with.

She was _bossy,_ for sure. Had been for as long as they had known each other.

"Rightfully worried or panicking because you're here and not there to supervise?" Steve clarified.

Diana laughed. "A little bit of both, I think."

"Well, he's a big boy." He paused and frowned. "He is, isn't he?"

She nodded, smiling. "He is. But some of those things are my job, not his."

"He's doing fantastic, I'm sure." His fingers curled around her neck to draw her closer, his mouth finding hers again as he thought, _This is what every morning should be like for as long as I breathe_.

Steve's hand slid down her neck, trailing the length of her arm before slipping around her waist.

"Steve."

"Mm."

His mouth abandoned hers and started to inch its way toward her neck once more, his teeth grazing lightly along the sensitive skin as he moved closer toward the spot that worked like magic. Her breath caught in her throat and Steve smiled to himself, feeling her resolve crumble. His fingers traced along the hem of her tank top before sliding underneath it, searching for skin. Christ, he loved her so much it almost hurt in that impossibly pleasant way that he wanted to never stop.

"Steve," Diana tried again, albeit without conviction, trailing off as her spine arched under his touch.

He inched her tank top up, and then some more, kissing his way down her neck and toward her collarbone and wanting nothing more than to pull her to him and stay in bed for another hour, or five. Or the rest of the day, for that matter. They could make good use of that.

Was the wanting ever going to go away? He had no idea. He had no idea how what he felt for her could ever go away, or even fade. How much time could one person need for something this consuming to cease to be? Several lifetimes, for certain. And he didn't want it to. Didn't want to not feel this burning for her, the need simmering beneath his skin, the elation that filled him at the mere thought of her smile. Didn't want the pricking of his skin at the sound of her voice whispering to him in the dark to ever ebb.

He turned his head, pressing his mouth to the pulse point just under her jaw, her blood throbbing rapidly against his lips. Pleased, he trailed his hand down her back and lower still, his fingers tracing the hem of her panties along the curve of her thigh, moving slowly closer to where she loved to be touched, both of them very much aware that once he got there her resistance wouldn't stand a chance. Diana muttered something he didn't catch, desire pulsing in his blood.

"Steve."

With a hand on his chest, holding him firmly in place, she pulled away and took a steadying breath, dazed – much to his satisfaction, but also amused beyond measure by his rather confused look, caused by the sudden lack of contact.

"I wasn't done," he protested and tried to reach for her, but damn the Amazon strength that, with just a small nudge, had him on his back again.

"I have a meeting with a curator of the Gotham Museum of Art in an hour," Diana said, steering the conversation in a different direction while she so very obviously tried not to laugh at the defeated look on his face. "To see if maybe we could do a collection exchange. They seem to be quite interested."

"I can be quick," Steve promised eagerly and heatedly and with as much conviction as he could muster, completely ignoring the second part of her statement. "And efficient. I can be very efficient," he added when she tilted her head and arched an eyebrow.

He grinned.

"Don't I know that," Diana smirked and leaned over to kiss the corner of his mouth, her hand still holding him against the sheets. "And I prefer to take my time with you," she whispered. "Tonight."

Steve swallowed, watching the fire flare up in her eyes, his own body responding to it in an instant.

"How about I take you for lunch when I'm done?" She offered as a truce, taking pity on his wounded expression and, well, some other parts of him.

"I'm not sure I can wait that long," he admitted, his gaze dropping to the bow of her mouth and then further down to the expanse of her skin disappearing in the cleavage of her shirt. "I'm hungry now."

She laughed and stood up, and it took him a whole of two seconds to start missing her terribly.

"You'll have to manage, I'm afraid," she said, sitting back down at the desk.

Steve turned on his side and propped up on his elbow. "Hey, how come it's always you taking me places?"

Diana glanced at him. "Because you don't know the city."

He made a face and ran his hand over his hair, trying to smooth it down and failing spectacularly. "Yeah, fair point." He paused. "But how about I take you out for a change?"

Her eyes narrowed skeptically. "Where?"

The corner of his mouth curled upwards. "I have an idea."

Diana turned off her laptop and closed it before crossed the room again until she was standing right before him, and Steve's gaze traveled unashamedly up and down her legs.

"I'm sure you do."

"Outside of this room, I swear," he added, looking up. "Unless…." He let the sentence hang between them, his suggestive tone more than a little hopeful.

She shook his head, laughed, and leaned down to kiss him once more, her hand stroking his stubbled cheek. "I'll come get you here at 1, yes?"

Steve craned his neck to chase her lips. "Yes, ma'am."

"Sleep," she murmured, her face not an inch away from his. "I promise you we won't have time for it tonight."

He smiled. "Tease."

"You started it."

He did, and he regretted nothing.

Steve chuckled, pulling her pillow closer and inhaling her scent that still lingered on it as Diana headed toward the bathroom. "Yeah, well, who wouldn't?"

xoox

By the time Diana came out of the shower and got dressed, Steve was already asleep again, sprawled diagonally across the bed with his arms wrapped around her pillow. She smiled and walked over to the bed, more than a little tempted to wake him up and allow him to get her out of her clothes this time. So very tempted. They had done that before, and the memory of those moments stirred something warm in her chest, her whole body humming with need for his touch.

However, she did mean it when she said that some of the tasks her assistant was doing now were not entirely his responsibility, and had Diana been in Paris, it would have been a different story. Here, though, her resources were limited and time zones were an issue to be considered, and it wasn't like she could take care of physically arranging the collection from another continent. Steve's amusement regarding Pierre's dependency wasn't unreasonable, and while personally, Diana found it rather endearing, she did appreciate his hard work nonetheless, and the least she could do while she was here was finish the negotiations that had started months ago and were still nowhere near complete.

If nothing else, it made her feel a little bit better about still being in Gotham even though there was, technically, no need for it and no reason for her to stay, except for the man snoring softly into her pillow right now, tangled in the sheets, and her desperate need to hold on to this time with him, like this, for just a while longer.

She had lovers after Steve, people she was comfortable with and cared about, but never once was she scared of losing anyone the way she couldn't bear the thought of losing him. She wasn't ready to let go just yet.

Lips curved into a smile, Diana crouched down near the bed. She stroked her hand through Steve's hair, mindful of not disturbing him, and then pressed her lips to his forehead, breathing him in and trying to ignore the longing building up in her chest with all her might.

No one had ever had the kind of power over her that Steve wielded, and not once was she willing to give it to anyone so gladly.

His face scrunched a little at her touch, and she whispered a quiet _I love you_ , unable to stop herself. Unable to stop saying it, period. Needed to say it for every day that she had spent missing him, the words whispered into his skin when they were making love and repeated again and again as they lay basking in the content afterglow.

And then, after a moment of hesitation, Diana stood up before she had a chance to change her mind and crawl back into his arms, the rest of the world be damned. She walked quietly out of the room, closing the door behind her and doing her goddamn best to ignore a pang of panic in her chest. It was still new, and half the time it felt like a dream and she was terrified out of her mind to wake up and find out that he was still gone.

She got it now. Used to having him slip right through her fingers, she understood the despair lurking behind Steve's eyes, a reflection of her own fears that made her want to avert her gaze because they were too painful to see.

There was no one in the kitchen, even though the coffee machine was on and a bitter smell of the fine Arabica was hanging in the air. She was not surprised. Both Barry and Arthur liked to sleep in and Alfred often read in the study before breakfast if there were no urgent matters for him to attend to. Such as patching Bruce up after a rough night, which, if she recalled correctly, was a fairly frequent occurrence. Her gaze lingered for a moment on her semi-transparent reflection. The temperature kept going down steadily during the past week and the glass wall overlooking the dark, gloomy forest was fogged up at the corners. It was bound to snow in a week or two, she thought absently.

Diana reached for a cup holder, looking for the mug that she had claimed as hers when she stayed here for the first time, trying to decide if she could afford to have a proper breakfast, and then reconsidered when she noticed that the light over the staircase leading down to the Batcave was on.

Maybe she could stop by a coffee shop near the museum later, she decided.

Downstairs, Bruce was half-buried under the hood of the Batmobile, tugging and pulling at something that Diana couldn't see. He glanced up when he heard the sound of her footsteps before turning his attention back to the problem _du jour_ again, although it was more than enough for her to notice his weary look and dark circles under his eyes. He was a morning person alright, when he had to be, but she still couldn't help but wonder if he was _already_ up or _still_.

Diana crossed the distance between them and paused near the bumper of the car, peeking inside as well out of sheer curiosity.

"You need to sleep sometimes, you know?" She said, folding her arms over her chest.

"No rest for the wicked, or however that saying goes," Bruce muttered without looking at her.

"You don't have to take it to extremes," she noted, smiling. "Is there anything bothering you, Bruce?" She asked when it went unnoticed.

"Why would you think that?"

Ha made a grab for a wrench from the toolbox sitting atop the tubes and hoses.

"You haven't been around much lately."

In the past few days, every time she tried to catch him for a proper conversation he was either out, or on the way out, or very obviously trying to come up with an excuse to escape. If Diana didn't know any better, she would have assumed that he was avoiding her on purpose. And quite frankly, his inability or unwillingness to even meet her eyes right now spoke volumes.

Bruce straightened up and turned to the work bench, looking for something among the assortment of tools spread out there, his back to her.

"Maybe you were too preoccupied to notice," he said as he picked up a screwdriver.

"Can we talk?" She offered softly, watching the back of his head, then his profile as he leaned forward again.

"About what?"

She didn't waver. "The benefit in Gotham two months ago."

His hesitation was brief, yet it didn't escape her attention.

"What about it?" Bruce asked, his voice pointedly nonchalant, and then cursed when he dropped the screwdriver into the depths of the Batmobile, the metallic clang oddly loud in the suddenly quiet room.

Diana didn't want to do it. Regretted not doing it sooner, unbidden guilt blossoming in her chest. She didn't owe him anything, never had, but it didn't mean that she didn't see that he was hurting and that it was her fault, one way or another.

"You know what," she murmured.

This time, Bruce did look up, his gaze tired but sharp, his expression uncompromising, although she could see a flicker of doubt flash across it, like he couldn't quite decide if he should deny it or brush it off or pretend that he had no idea what she was talking about. She braced herself for either one.

He chose neither.

"It was a kiss, Diana. Not a proclamation of undying love." He pushes up to stand and picked up a rag to wipe his hands that were stained black with motor oil and dirt. "Alcohol and boredom are a dangerous combination. I should know. If nothing else, we are both aware that there is no such thing as _undying love_ to begin with."

Everything about him was daring her to disagree.

She didn't, even though she didn't believe that it was nothing. Certainly not for him. Hadn't been for a long time. Her inability to reciprocate his feelings didn't make her blind, although it might have made her look the other way more often than not.

"You seemed to have made the decision," Bruce added when the pause started to stretch between them. He moved closer to her until they were only inches apart and she could smell cold and whiskey and that rubbery scent of the Batsuit on him. "Is there anything that I can say that can get you to change your mind?" The question was rhetorical, but there was desperate, hungry yearning behind his words.

She met his gaze, held it, wondering for just a moment—

It didn't matter, though.

"No," she shook her head.

Simple.

Honest.

He was wrong on another account, too. There was such thing as an undying love. It was real, and it was burning in her chest with such intensity that it was hard to breathe, and she never wanted for it to stop. Not even for a second. Just as she was certain that it never would.

Diana didn't say any of that, though. Knew that she didn't need to.

Bruce was a good man, and she cared for him deeply, but the matters of his heart were none of her concern, no matter how much he wanted them to be. They would have worked, she thought. In another lifetime, if the stars were aligned differently, they could have worked. Maybe. He was driven, his passion matching hers, and there were so many things that they viewed similarly. She never considered it seriously, but she toyed with the idea.

And then she would have probably hurt him when it turned out that he wasn't enough. Zeus knew it had happened before.

"What if he never returned?" He asked suddenly.

Diana felt her whole body deflate. "Don't go there, Bruce," she breathed, shaking his head.

He watched her for a long moment, and then nodded. "Why did you make it sound like he was dead, when…" he faltered not sure how to finish the sentence.

"I never said that," she countered. "You assumed because of the old photograph."

Because who wouldn't? As a rule, his people didn't get to live to be over a hundred years ago. Not often. Certainly not without ageing. So why did she feel so foul about never correcting him? For allowing him to believe a lie?

"How?" Bruce pressed, and this time there was curiosity to him.

 _Because I love him_ , Diana thought, and like always, it made her soul unfurl until it took so much space in her chest that she could barely inhale.

"It's complicated," she responded. "And it doesn't really matter."

He nodded again and stepped away from her, choosing not to push, breaking whatever spell kept them captive in a bubble of trust that burst before her eyes.

"Well, I'm glad…" He started and faltered once more. "If you're happy."

"I am." Diana looked around the cavernous room before turning back to him.

Bruce cleared his throat. "Do you still love him? After all this time?"

She didn't hesitate. "I do."

"I'm glad." He repeated and looked away. "You deserve to be happy."

They remained silent for a few moments, both searching for words that didn't seem to come.

"When I go home, he's coming with me," she said after a while.

Bruce stepped back to the work bench. "So, you'll be a package deal, then?" He asked.

She smiled tentatively, not quite certain if it was a joke, but liking his wording for some reason. "Afraid so."

His lips twitched a little, but the smile didn't linger. "You should be careful with Waller. She is going to use him against you," he spoke.

Her own smile faded as well, replaced by a slight frown. It wasn't that she never thought about it – she didn't trust that woman and wasn't going to start now. But it was one thing to merely have that thought cross her mind, and something else entirely to have someone else put it into words.

"The way you tried to?" She asked, surprised by the sharp edge in her voice.

"Diana-"

"Don't think that I forgot, Bruce. Don't think I forgot that _you_ tried to use him to manipulate me."

He winced, his palm running over the back of his neck. "I won't. Trust me, I won't."

She squared her shoulders. "And if you do it again, I am going to walk out this door and never come back."

He exhaled slowly, his eyes earnest. "I know, and I'm grateful that you haven't already."

"I won't let Waller come anywhere near Steve," she said.

His frown deepened. "She might not ask."

Diana scoffed. "I'd like to see her try."

"She's going to have to go through all of us if she has to," he noted.

She shook her head. "It's a nice sentiment, but I'm sure it won't come to it."

Bruce's jaw set tautly.

"It is not a sentiment, and it _will_ come to it. Because what do you think is going to happen if she can't get to him?" He asked, and this time her brows knitted together, his voice cutting deep. "She won't come for you, she's not an idiot. And she won't come for Steve because it's the same as coming for you. So, it stands to reason that she will try to do it through the next best target. Barry. Victor. The rest of us." He rubbed his forehead. "You think she's above hurting someone for her own gain? She's done it before and she's very good at covering up her tracks."

Diana's lips pressed into a tight line. "I will never let it happen."

He lowered his hand, his eyes weary. "It's not your job to keep watch. Not like that."

She was shaking her head. "What do you want me to say, Bruce? What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to understand what's at stake here."

"You think I don't?" She demanded, furious. "You think I'm clueless?"

"I think you're blindsided when it comes to Steve Trevor." The jealousy in his voice caught her off guard. Jealousy he had no right to own. "He is your Achilles heel, if you please."

Diana bristled at his accusation. "And Alfred is yours, and Barry's father is his. Lois. Mera. Victor's father. Steve is not my weakness because he loves me and I love him, he never has been." If nothing else, he had been the opposite, showing her the side of strength she never knew existed. "We all have people we care about. It doesn't make any one of them stand out among the others."

"But it does," Bruce insisted. "Waller wants more from him than she's letting on. She can't not to. He's 136 years old, for heaven's sake! However that works…." He stopped abruptly, his jaw working for a few moments. "It's all too—convenient. The timing, his sudden return after all those years…"

"Whatever it is, she won't get it," Diana said firmly, cutting him off, and Zeus help her, she felt sorry for Amanda Waller – if the woman tried to cross her path, Diana wouldn't hesitate. "Never." She bit her lip, then exhaled slowly, remembering why she was here and what this was supposed to be about. "Bruce…" she started.

"Don't," he interjected, lifting his hand up.

"You are deflecting."

His face closed off instantly.

"Don't pity me. It was a kiss. I have never expected anything from you, not then and certainly not now."

"I'm not-"

He gave her a look and Diana cut off, not wanting to lie but also unsure what the truth was anymore.

"It's better that way. For the team. For everyone. All of this," Bruce gestured vaguely around them, "it's bigger than you and I, and if he's the one…" He trailed off. This was nonsense and they both knew it, but she was not going to argue, knowing all too well that they could drown in what-ifs if they allowed themselves to. "Just be careful."

"I'm sorry," Diana said softly, for not feeling the same way or for admitting it, or for losing her temper minutes ago, she wasn't sure, but hoped he knew.

For hurting him.

There was a heavy feeling between them, and maybe she wasn't completely ready to forgive him for his words, for the things he had done, but there was fear behind his motives, not malice, she knew that much. She wasn't sure if it made it better, but it didn't make it worse.

"Don't be. It's me who should be sorry for… well, a lot of things." Bruce took a breath and then chuckled wistfully. "Your Captain Trevor is one lucky man."

She felt the tightness in her chest ease. "I would argue that I am."

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"Of course, you would."

Her gaze darted toward the staircase, and then back to Bruce. "You really need to get some sleep."

xoox

When Steve woke up again, the early morning fog that never failed to turn this place into a scene straight out of a gothic novel was gone and the sun that offered all the light but none of the warmth had crept over the treetops, flooding the bedroom with a soft glow.

He scrubbed his hand over his face and rolled onto his back, squinting around the room, half-expecting to see Diana at the desk or rummaging through the closet but not surprised when he found it empty. A pang of longing jolted through him. It had been a few hours, and he already missed her to the point of fierce ache in his chest.

There was a text from her on his phone, a quick good morning that she had sent an hour and a half ago, and Steve smiled, rereading a brief message several times. In his mind, he could easily see her typing it after she parked the car outside of the Museum or maybe in the elevator, and he hoped that she wished she was here instead as desperately as he did. He could think of a few ways for them to make good use of this morning.

Not that he expected her to cancel her life for him. It was not Diana's fault, after all, that he had crashed back into her world with the grace of a bull in a china shop. Nor was it her problem that he would much rather spend all his free time between the sheets with her making up for the lost years than do, well, anything else.

Not that Steve had nothing to do, for that matter, he reminded himself.

In the past few days, he had managed to upgrade Bruce's security system, which even Diana had a hard time getting around when they tested it and he learned - _not without surprise_ \- that she was quite spectacular at bypassing them when she needed to. He was also going to have a look at the firewall in the Batcave, as a part of his agreement with Bruce. God only knew what he had on those servers, including the half-fake file he had on Steve.

Better safe than sorry, Steve figured.

Which, come to think of it, could be a project for the morning.

Maybe.

Except that it meant going down to the Batcave, which Steve was more than a little reluctant to do. It was the one place in the house where Bruce seemed to gravitate to the most, and ever since he and Diana… well, _fixed_ things, there was a not so discreet undercurrent of tension between the two of them.

Sometimes, he could practically hear an endless array of what-ifs running through Bruce's head. All the things that Steve refused to venture into for fear of losing his mind.

He could still try, though. It wasn't like they could keep this up forever.

At least that was the plan when he finally made his way to the kitchen only to find Victor fiddling with the coffee maker. Barry was sitting at the kitchen isle, slouched over a bowl of cereal. He glanced up from his breakfast and offered Steve a small wave.

"Morning," Steve said, pausing for just a second, curious. "It's Tuesday," he pointed out.

"Your point being?" Barry asked, shoving another spoonful into his mouth, his words garbled as he chewed.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

The young man shook his head. "They're painting the lab. I'm allergic to that stuff."

"Huh," Steve blinked and turned to Victor.

"Don't look at me," Victor said. "I'm just hiding here. My dad's been a bit overbearing lately, after what happened at the S.T.A.R. Labs."

A faint frown creased Steve's forehead. "Are you doing okay?" He asked, eyeing the Cyborg with apprehension.

He still wasn't entirely sure how the healing worked for someone like Victor to begin with, but he looked fine, for a half-robot. Come to think of it, having a self-regenerating tissue was quite handy, perhaps. If nothing else, it was so much more convenient in their line of work than dealing with the vulnerable human bodies that could be easily incapacitated and took weeks to heal.

It fascinated Steve to no end. That, and the mechanics of it. Jokingly, he asked Diana the other night if he could take Victor apart to see how he worked and put him back together, and she laughed until she had tears in her eyes.

The memory made his mouth curve in a smile, slight colour rising on his cheeks. He didn't mean it, of course. Not in a literal sense.

"Yeah." Victor turned back to the coffee maker, his lips pressed together. "Considering my definition of okay."

Steve nodded. "Acting up again?" He asked, his gaze darting toward the machine.

Vic nodded. "Alfred asked me to have a look. I think it's the power cord because everything else seems to be fine, but I can't…" he frowned.

"Diana seems to be the only one who has a way with that thing," Steve said and pulled a carton of orange juice from the fridge. He could get coffee later. Or he could also ask Alfred to throw the evil thing out and get something less temperamental.

Vic chuckled. "Yeah, Di's a woman of many talents."

"Dude," Barry hissed theatrically, snapping his head up, his eyes comically wide. His pointed at Steve. "That's his _girlfriend_."

Victor rolled his eyes. "I didn't mean it like-"

"I know, it's okay." Steve patted him on the metal shoulder, smiling. And added, "She really is." He started toward the pantry but then stopped and turned to Victor again. "Can I ask you something?"

Vic shrugged without looking at him. "Sure."

"Does it, uh… does it hurt?" Steve gestured vaguely toward the metal parts of him, too curious to shut up now that the words were out of his mouth.

This time, Victor glanced at him, his lips curving into a faint smile. "No. Not anymore." At the counter, Barry was hanging on to every word, his breakfast forgotten. "I know it did, when I… you know, in the beginning. But I don't remember much of it, it's all blurred." He shook his head, and Steve wondered if maybe it was for the best, a blessing in disguise.

Once, back in 1917, he got shot. A graze that was more of an inconvenience than an actual injury that left him with a scar on his left shoulder. He was sent to the field hospital to have it checked nonetheless, and that experience was like nothing he had ever had before. There were people there with their limbs torn off by the mines, people with half their faces melted off in the fire. The war was a nightmare, but that tent? That tent was hell. He had never seen this much pain in one place, so concentrated and all around them. It was like a living, breathing thing, taking up the inside of the canvas tent and suffocating them all.

Steve knew that few of those men lived, but those who did – well, he could bet his very soul that they would rather not remember the days of unbearable agony. He certainly didn't want that for Victor.

"Right now, it's odd," Vic added. "It feels… okay, but strange. I do have the whole 'phantom limb' thing going on when my leg or my back would itch and it wouldn't go away for hours, and it both the most and the least human thing about this whole…" He glanced down himself and then met Steve's eyes. "Whatever this is. But no, it doesn't hurt."

"Man, this is the coolest thing ever," Barry blurted out.

Victor looked at him. "Which part?"

"The—the ghost… whatever." He lifted another spoonful of cereal to his mouth. "All of it, really."

"You think?" Victor asked flatly.

"It does sound fascinating," Steve admitted.

"And he can play video games _with his brain_ ," Barry added, for what felt like a hundredth time, to Steve's memory.

"Yeah, that's the biggest perk of being only half human," Victor deadpanned.

"Exactly!" Barry agreed, not hearing the sarcasm in the Cyborg's voice.

"I guess having built-in weaponry could come in handy now and then," Steve offered before Vic had a chance to come up with a retort.

"Yeah," Victor nodded, "and also this."

He pressed his spread-out fingers to the side of the coffee maker, his brows pulling together in concentration as if he was hooking to the machine's mainframe. And then he curled his hand into a fist and smacked the whole thing with it. It sputtered for a moment, and after a few seconds, the main console lit up and the air filled instantly with the bitter smell of percolating coffee.

"I could have done that," Alfred noted, appearing in the kitchen in that exact moment.

"You're welcome," Victor grinned at him.

"Captain," Alfred nodded.

"Alfred," Steve echoed, amused.

He grabbed a cup from the holder but paused and looked over his shoulder, having to stifle a smile.

A speedster, a cyborg, a butler, bickering about something amongst themselves.

Somewhere in the house, an Atlantian was probably still snoring away – if there was one thing that Steve noticed about Arthur it was that he decidedly wasn't a morning person. Not in the slightest. That, his distaste for the water jokes – the last time Barry suggested that he tried talking to the river cutting Gotham in half, the very one that was known for toxic waste floating in it, alongside with two-headed fish, he had to make a very fast escape because Arthur did not appreciate the humour. Or that time when Bruce asked him to part the water of the lake like in the Biblical story and Steve thought that the Batman was in for his first real flight.

And somehow along the way, while he was busy putting the broken pieces of his life back together and trying to find his heart again, they all managed to crawl under Steve's skin without him even noticing and found home there.

In a few hours, he would see Diana again, and the mere thought of her made his heart spring into a gallop. He had missed her, but he didn't realize how much until he didn't have to anymore, and being back with her left him with a sense of vertigo, the ever-terrifying sensation of free fall that he didn't want to break.

How could less than a thousand lifetimes of this ever be enough?

xoox

Their first date after the war, after Steve had healed and they returned to London, was a dinner at a small restaurant not far from his apartment that he booked on Etta's recommendation because he had never stayed in the city long enough to discover any places more sophisticated than the bars frequented by Sameer and Charlie in between their missions. The ones that supplied cheap alcohol and trouble above all else. The ones that were not suited for a princess – he chose not to think of having taken her to one before (as Etta reminded him helpfully).

They were on a mission, he had told himself. It didn't count. He was not trying to…to make an impression then. Mostly. Yet, he still yearned to fix it.

Hence, the dinner.

He remembered the red checkered tablecloths and flowers on each table and an actual menu with a selection of options - something that he was so unaccustomed to that he could barely bring himself to pick something. He remembered smiling like a moron because he didn't seem to be able to ever stop, and Diana's inquisitive gaze when he tried to come up with a sensible enough explanation as to why any of that was a big deal when they were already sharing not only their meals but also a bed since the day she had found him in that field outside of the airbase in Belgium – something that he couldn't quite put a finger on himself. He remembered the awestruck and curious look on her face and thinking that they were doing it all wrong.

Okay, not wrong but the other way around, and it both amused and scared him, the newness of it and the lack of… rules, perhaps.

He took her to bed before he took her out for dinner – and no, sharing a bland stew by the campfire on the night they stayed with Chief didn't count as one. He loved her before he truly knew her. He almost lost her before they had a chance at anything. But then again, nothing had ever been normal about them, so maybe it wasn't much of a surprise that he struggled to find his footing. Maybe it was about making their own _normal_ , or so he was thinking as he watched her watch him in the faint light of a dancing flame that night, a tender smile on her lips and a life full of wonder stretching infinitely before them.

But that was a long time ago, a whole century, to be exact. And even though Steve still remembered that night with striking clarity, they did manage to make their own rules that seemed to have worked much better than anything he had ever learned prior to meeting her, social rules be damned. Diana didn't care much for appearances and gestures. She wanted him, she wanted to be loved, and those were the things that Steve could give her so easily and gladly that he was nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

And this, it turned out, had never changed.

"Okay, you have to be able to reach the handlebars comfortably," Steve was telling her now, on a cold November afternoon nearly a hundred years later, as his hands curled over Diana's, her skin warm against his palms.

He had spent the past half hour going in great detail over the anatomy of his motorcycle and showing her the switches and the clutches and the levers, making her repeat his words back to him so he knew that she got it right. It was slightly more nuanced than the car, and even though she preferred manual transmission to the automatic, as he had learned, and the principle here was very similar, he wanted to make sure-

" _This_ is your idea of taking me out?" Diana asked, not without amusement.

Sitting behind her, his chest pressed against her back and the hair that escaped a loose bun on the nape of her neck whipping against his face, Steve let out a short laugh. "Don't tell me this is not fun." And then, unable to resist the temptation – because when was he ever? – he dipped his head and kissed the back of her neck.

"You're being distracting," she warned him, but there was a smile in her voice.

"I learn from the best," he noted, and she laughed. "Okay, so…" He cleared his throat.

"It's pretty straightforward," she said, turning her head slightly to the side.

Truth be told, this morning when he promised her that he had a plan he didn't exactly have one. He just thought that he would figure it out by lunch. It didn't bother Steve one way or another that she seemed to be the one to always choose where they went – which was her bedroom more often than not (which was something that he had no business complaining about). However, there was a burning need simmering inside of him to do something for her, break out of their routine, however non-invasive it was. It had been so long since he could have her all to himself, even for a short while, that he craved it beyond comprehension.

Neither he, nor Diana walked through the past century without emerging on the other side with more than a little bit of cynicism clinging to their bodies like a second skin. He had expected it from himself, what with the first war effectively stripping him of the delusions he might have had when he was younger and the subsequent ones leaving him with a hard shell around his soul to protect it from further pain, but seeing it in her – albeit much less pronounced and bitter than his own – was still something that Steve wasn't quite prepared for.

The fact alone didn't bother so much as sadden him. There were many things that he had always wanted desperately to shield her from, and knowing that he had failed on all accounts felt like a punch to the gut that left him breathless.

It was not his place to stop it, to get her not to give up – and god help him, he would never blame her if she had. Time was starting to take a toll on him as well. There were moments when he ached to know what his expiration date was, exactly. Queen Hippolyta made it perfectly clear that he wasn't immortal like her daughter, and there were many a night when Steve lay awake scared of closing his eyes for fear of never opening them again because there were no rules to his life.

God only knew what Diana went through on her own, what demons were lurking in her mind, haunted by the memories of pain and loss.

There was nothing that Steve could do to fix it for her.

However, he could try to coax the old Diana out of her hiding. He had never expected her to remain the same, much like he knew that he would be a different person at the end of this journey – there was no point in fighting the inevitable. But their old selves, brittle and frayed at the edges, were still there somewhere, deep down, buried under a layer of disappointment and pain and fear.

And so when she came back to get him around lunch time, he gave her knee-length skirt a sceptical look and suggested that she changed into something more practical. Intrigued, Diana obliged without arguing. And then he drove them to the harbour, nearly empty this late in the season with the chilly wind blowing from the water and angry waves crashing against the stone and concrete below, and said that it was time for her to learn how to drive a motorcycle.

All things considered, it definitely wasn't the worst idea he had ever come up with.

And there it was, a familiar glint of surprise in her eyes mixed with something that made Steve's chest fold in on itself. A feeling that was most certainly worth dying for. He wanted—

He wanted so badly for her to never stop being surprised. He wanted her to never, ever stop wondering.

The air was cold, biting at their cheeks and noses even though Steve was more than a little certain that Diana only wore her jacket because it was a social convention, to stop strangers from gawking at her. A dozen rather puzzled seagulls were floating over the water coloured in gold by the sun that no longer bothered pretending that the winter wasn't near, casting odd looks in their direction, and he felt his blood flowing in his veins like it hadn't in a very long time.

"Are you hungry?" Steve asked as Diana fiddled with the controls under the dashboard.

"Yes," she admitted, glancing at him. "A little."

"Well, maybe you could drive us somewhere later," he offered, and she smirked. "Ready?"

Diana nodded, and he caught a glimpse of another smile that took root in his chest, spreading all the way into the tips of his fingers and his toes before springing into a full bloom across his face and he was beaming like a lovesick idiot that he was. God, he was so crazy about her that his heart was about to burst.

Steve leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her shoulder, sliding his arm around her – not to be thrown off the bike if she started it too abruptly, and also because he wanted to never stop touching her. He ran his hand across her stomach. "Okay, let's do this."

It took her a few attempts, but Diana got it right after a minute or two, waving him off with, "I got this, Steve," as she brimmed with stubborn determination to figure things out on her own that he loved so.

And then… and then there was swerving, and the wind tearing at the folds of their clothes and slapping wisps of her hair against his face. And laughter. And a time or two when Steve thought that they would fly through an embankment and straight into the frigid water - and if they did, it would probably be worth it. The bike stalled; Diana had to restart it half a dozen times before she got a hang of it, and when she came too close to end of the pier, he had to grab the handlebars over her hands and steer them back to safety.

He could feel her excitement flowing in his own veins like it belonged there.

And suddenly, none of this felt like a bad idea anymore.

The past few days felt surreal, too good to be true even. It was almost like someone climbed into his head and pulled everything he had dreamt of and prayed for and made it real, and even better than anything he could ever have imagined.

However, Steve wasn't delusional about this honeymoon phase lasting forever. Soon enough, their lives would have to fall back into some sort of rhythm. Diana had a job, and he had one hell of a task cut out for him if he wanted to work with the League. Waller's radio silence bothered him more than he was willing to let on and he itched to find out what caused it. He needed to know what they were up against before it was too late, and that thought was a constant presence in the back of his mind.

But it wasn't ending today, and hopefully not tomorrow; and right now, neither of them needed to think about any of that. Not for a little while.

"I gotta admit, you weren't half bad," he said when the sun started to inch toward the horizon and the shadows around them began to grow longer and Diana finally brought his bike to a stop with a jerk.

"Not half bad?" She echoed, incredulous and mock-insulted, as Steve propped it on a kickstand and slid off, missing the close contact with her instantly.

She climbed off too and stepped to him, pulling him to her by the lapels of his jacket. Steve didn't resist, his lips stretching into a smile the moment before they met hers.

"You were good," he murmured against her mouth, drawing her closer to him by her hips.

One of her hands slid up his chest and curled around the back of his neck, her body alive and languid against his. He could taste the thrill of the past few hours on her tongue, feel it in the way her fingers slid into his hair as she kissed him.

"A natural," Steve added, smiling.

Diana hummed in agreement and then stepped back. She reached for his hand and weaved her fingers through his. They walked toward the end of the pier, listening to the cries of seagulls nearly swallowed by the furious roar of the water and the singing of the wind. Before them, the ocean was stretching endlessly all the way to the places somewhere out of their reach.

Diana paused before the railing and peered into the distance, longing for something that she couldn't quite put into words building up inside of her. Steve could feel it thrumming in her blood.

He let go of her hand and moved to wrap his arms around her from behind. He pressed a kiss to the back of her head before resting his cheek against her temple, his gaze following hers. The wind was ferocious here, but the view was breathtaking – fierce and powerful, the ocean smelling of salt and seaweed and places they couldn't see. He could certainly understand the appeal even if they were a few seconds away from being blown away.

"You were right," Diana said after a few moments. She ran her hand along the sleeve of his jacket until her fingers reached his wrist, curling around it, her touch soothingly warm. "It was fun."

Steve chuckled. "Hey, I promised you a good time."

"You always do, and you always deliver," she responded matter-of-factly, and his skin flushed at the implication she didn't even bother to hide.

The Diana he knew back in the day was far less proficient in suggestive banter, but Steve had to admit that he rather enjoyed it now, even if half the time it ended with his heart racing for dear life and him struggling for words, a quick-thinking and articulate spy that he was.

Much to Diana's immense amusement.

"You know, we could have just stayed in your bedroom," he pointed out, and she laughed, the warmth of it making his very soul unfurl in his chest. For a while, they just stood there, watching the seagulls diving toward the water and soaring back into the sky as he held her close, her body nestled neatly into the circle of his arms and his heart hammering against her shoulder blades. "Do you miss it?" Steve asked after a few minutes. "Themyscira?"

The name of the island still rolled with difficulty from his tongue. Their time spent there remained one of his most cherished memories – not so much the heavenly island as the look on Diana's face when she was there, the easiness to her, her body language relaxed and at ease. There was nothing there to warrant any worry, never had been. And yet Steve couldn't help but wonder now and then how their lives might have turned out if they never went there at all.

A pang of shame shot through him, hot and burning, making him want to claw it from under his skin. The island was Diana's home and she loved it, and she longed for it even when she didn't want to admit it. He had no right to take it away from her. Yet, if his conversation with the Queen never happened—

A sigh flowed from his chest. He wouldn't have to run away from something he never knew existed.

"I do," Diana said after a moment. "But I know they are well. It is enough."

She turned to rest her forehead against his cheek, and Steve reached absently to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Do you ever wish that we never went there?" She asked as if reading his mind.

"No," Steve responded, surprised that he actually meant it. "I wish that some things had turned out differently. I wish that your mother was wrong." He took a breath. "But no, I never wished that we didn't go. You missed them, and I wanted answers."

Be careful what you wish for, he thought. Most of the things he knew about the Greeks and their mythology was from Diana, and the awful irony of opening his own Pandora's Box through her wasn't lost on him. Speak of unexpected.

"I did," she admitted, her finger circling absently over the juts of his knuckles. "But I wanted you more."

He stayed quiet for a while, watching the water, inhaling the ocean. Diana had always been drawn to it for as long as he could remember, the wistfulness in her gaze whenever she would look at the waves crashing against the beach never escaping his attention.

 _I wanted you more_.

"Are you cold?" Steve asked softly, tightening his grip on her.

"No," Diana shook her head, her hair brushing against his face.

He smiled. "Right. A goddess. So above our trivial human concerns."

"Doesn't mean that I don't like you holding me," she told him.

"You know, I…" Steve started and faltered. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry and his blood pounding fast in his ears. He could say anything now and it wouldn't matter. She wouldn't know the difference. Still, when he regained his ability to speak, he went for the truth, "I saw you once. In Paris, at the Louvre. About a decade and a half ago."

His heart was thudding in earnest by the time he fell silent to the point of him feeling dizzy.

Diana stayed quiet, and a hot wave of panic rose inside of him, making him want momentarily to turn back the time and swallow the words before they came out of his mind. With her, he always was either fumbling for words, or spilling his soul without thinking twice, and he wasn't certain which one was more frightening.

They never taught him that. When they were schooling him to be a spy, no one ever told him that there was nothing as disarming and terrifying as loving someone with everything that he was.

"I know," Diana said so softly that he almost missed it. "I saw you, too."

Steve's brows pulled together and he glanced down at her, wanting desperately to read her face but she remained staring straight ahead.

"You—you did?" He asked.

Surely, he had to have heard her wrong.

"It was April and we had just opened a new exhibition the previous week. You were standing in front of a Monet painting and looking at it like you were trying to find the answers in it unknown to mankind since the creation of the universe," she said quietly. "And I thought… for a moment, I thought that you came back for me."

Steve felt his body go rigid, and when he spoke, his voice came out hoarse and raw.

"Diana…"

"I didn't think that it was really you," she admitted, her fingers running absently over the back of his hand.

"You didn't?" He echoed.

Diana shook her head. "I used to see you often after you left. I'd notice a man with the same haircut or hear someone speak in your accent, and think…"

Her voice caught, and she trailed off. Steve pressed his lips to her temple. She turned in the circle of his arms, her hands snaking under his unzipped jacket to rest on his waist. She might not have felt the cold the way he did, but her cheeks were pink from the wind, and cool to the touch when he reached to loop a piece of hair around her ear.

It fell right back across her face moments later.

"I went to an art show in Geneva once, shortly after I moved back to Paris," she continued, taking his hand in hers and intertwining their fingers. Her eyes were watching his thumb running over her knuckles. "There was a father with a young girl, his daughter, on the plaza in front of the gallery. She ran over to him and he caught her in his arms and put her on his shoulders. She was laughing the whole time. From the back, he looked so much like you that I was certain…" Her other hand twitched on his side. "Until he turned around, I thought it was you."

Steve could see it in his mind – a sun-bathed square and the light reflecting off the windows, flocks of bold pigeons and toddlers chasing after them between congregations of tourists with cameras. And amidst them all, a woman frozen to a spot. He recalled the way he felt when he saw Bruce kiss her at the benefit and it was akin having someone stab him in the heart and twist the knife for good measure.

Whatever that encounter felt like for Diana, it couldn't have felt good.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, bowing his head closer to hers until their faces were almost touching.

"I hoped that it was you, and prayed that it wasn't," she said, her gaze drawn back to the waves, and for once, Steve wished that he couldn't see her expression. The anguish chasing across her features was unbearable. "That day, I was so jealous I couldn't recognize myself. More than I've ever been before." Her lips twitched humourlessly. "Which is ironic, considering the history of my people."

"And here I was thinking that you were above something that mundane," Steve muttered.

Diana turned to him, the concerned lines around her eyes smoothing out, her lips curving into a proper smile.

"You'd think so, but in reality, no one feels deeper or more passionately than gods." She sighed. "I knew that it wasn't you when that man turned around, but before then, I stood there and watched them. And I thought that there was nothing that I wanted more than for you to be happy. But even more than that, I wanted you to be happy with _me_."

Steve took in a shuddered breath and looked up from the knot of their hands. He found her gaze.

"I'm happy with you, Diana," he said quietly, his voice earnest. "I've never been happier than when I am with you. Then. Now. A million years from this moment."

It was silly thing to say. Silly and sentimental and like it came straight from one of those tacky greeting cards that people gave to each other because their own words didn't seem enough. The words that, if someone else said them, would have grated on his own ears. The words that, if said in front of Sammy and his friends, would have made him a laughing stock for weeks on end. Steve didn't care. He wanted to be tacky and sentimental, he wanted to sound like a cliché. If that was how he felt, then so be it.

Diana's features softened and a teasing comment he half-expected never came.

"I tried to find you, in the 1960's, after Etta passed away," she said after a moment. "I thought you'd come to her funeral, and when you didn't, I tried…"

Steve grimaced a little. "I'm pretty damn good at hiding."

"Yes, you are."

"I—" he cleared his throat. "I didn't know about Etta until it was too late." The memory was bitter and painful, aching still in his chest. Of all the things he would never forgive himself for, losing track of the people he loved was one of his biggest regrets. "I spoke with her daughter, about a month after…" He shook his head. "I went to say goodbye to Charlie, though. You should have seen how mad he was at me for—" his lips tugged upwards at the corners at the memory. "Well, for losing you."

Diana let out a small laugh. "I can imagine. Sameer was just as bad." She ran her hand back and forth along his side, her touch warm even through his shirt. "I saw him in Paris a few times, and the man had a foul mouth on as many languages as I could count."

"All about me?" Steve chuckled.

Diana's eyebrow arched. "Of course."

"I went to his show once, when he was touring in Belgium," Steve confessed. "He beat me with a bouquet that he received from one of his devoted admirers." She laughed again. "Said it was a much better use for it. And called me names, too, that I'm not going to repeat in the presence of a lady, and told me to go find you." He let out a breath. "I'm not saying I didn't deserve it."

"You didn't," she murmured, lifting their hands up to her mouth and pressing a kiss to his fingers. "You were hurting." The wind picked up and then died down just as suddenly, and odd calm settling over them. "Although I still wish you'd listened to him."

Steve did, too. Wished he'd listened to Etta when he called him a moron and some other unflattering words. Wished he'd listened to Sammy when he told Steve to get his 'sorry ass back to Paris and stop being an idiot' – direct quote. Wished he'd listened to Charlie whose lungs were collapsing the last time they spoke and who still managed to make Steve feel like he was the one who had drawn the short straw. The latter probably should have clued him in, but the wound was still raw and bleeding, and he chose to let it scar rather than poke at it.

"I miss them," he said.

"I miss them, too," Diana sighed.

They spoke of their friends some more, trading old stories and filling in the gaps that each of them had. Steve never met Sameer's grandkids, and Diana knew little to nothing about Charlie who seemed to be the most adamant of them all to cut the ties with the past for fear of falling into a pit of despair that the war had dragged him into all over again. He missed Etta terribly, but keeping an open communication was a tempting getaway to coming back and he was scared. Diana did, though. She never forgot, and he gave her a story from before they met for each one that she had from after he had left.

"Does the League ever remind you of them?" Steve asked when they both fell silent, realizing that he was practically shaking from the chill by that point, his toes numb cold stones in his boots.

"Sometimes," she smiled. "I think the League is far less reckless than your boys."

Amused, he shook his head. "I beg to differ." And added, "I think that if they all met, they'd have liked each other."

She let out a small laugh. "They would have," she agreed, leaning into him.

"Do you remember Veld?" He asked after a moment, his voice low. "The night after the liberation? Dancing?"

She tilted her head, curious. "Yes. Of course."

"Remember how I told you that I didn't know what life without the war was like?" She didn't say anything, but her eyes were flicking between his, waiting for him to continue. "I still don't think I do. Probably never have."

Diana let go of his hand, her gaze searching his, and it was as hard for Steve to look at her now as it was when she had first asked that question and he came up empty.

She put her hands on either side of his face, and her mouth formed into a small smile that made something snap inside of him.

"I love you," she said quietly, her right thumb running over his cheekbone. "I will always love you."

His gaze dropped from her eyes down to her mouth and the temptation was too strong to resist. He leaned forward and kissed her, her lips warm against his. She pulled him to her, weaving her arms around his neck and allowing his hands so slip underneath her jacket and around her waist, palms roaming over her back, her shoulder-blades, everywhere he wanted them to be, drawing her closer to his chest until he could feel her heartbeat as clear as his own.

She gasped against his mouth when one of his hands slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, startled by the cold of his touch to her skin. A low groan formed in the back of her throat, her lips parting against his and sending a shiver of a different kind down Steve's body. He didn't hesitate, kissing her the way he wanted to kiss her every moment of every day that they were apart, frantic and almost panicky, needing to put into his touch everything he knew not how to express with words.

Diana was the one to break the kiss, pulling back a little, her eyes dazed and dark with want when they found his, knocking what little air Steve still had left in his lungs out of him. She was breathing hard, her chest heaving against his, and although it had never been about pride with them, he was stupidly pleased to know that even after all this time he was still able to kiss her senseless, quite literally so.

"Take me back home, Steve," she whispered, and it came out as a demand, her voice hoarse, her exhales puffing out in small clouds between them.

The corner of his mouth lifted. "I thought you were hungry," he reminded her, his fingers running back and forth along the base of her spine beneath her shirt.

Diana's hand flexed, curling around a fistful of his shirt under his jacket.

"I am."

xoox

Funny how some mistakes were meant to keep biting one in the ass for as long as one lived, apparently.

There wasn't a day when Amanda Waller didn't regret forming Suicide Squad – she got nothing out of it and lost more than she wanted to admit – and yet it was the one thing that somehow seemed to haunt her no matter how much she tried to put it behind her.

If she knew to set her attention on Justice League earlier, a lot of things could have gone very differently, yet here she was, still trying to clean up the mess in Midcity while dodging everything else coming her way and seeing no way out.

And on top of that, she had managed to grossly miscalculate her steps with the League as well, which felt like a cherry on top of the crap cake of the situation she was in. When she first found the photograph and discovered that Steve Trevor was alive, he was meant to be her trump card. Instead, she was left with nothing to bargain with. Bringing him in was a mistake. The one that she couldn't fix now.

There had been nothing in his scant file on his personal relationship with Wonder Woman, and as far as Waller was concerned, Diana Prince had never been in a romantic relationship at all. She should have known better.

At the time, Waller was going for half-gratitude from a certain demi-goddess in hopes of getting in her good graces, and half-shock to shake up the seemingly established peace in the League. God knew, she needed to have an upper hand with them for once, and briefly, Bruce Wayne's reaction was almost worth it. Her own superiors had been breathing down her neck for months now, urging her to gain control over half a dozen people who could tear this city apart without breaking a sweat with no consequences whatsoever and, if nothing else, her continuous failures in that regard were starting to drive her up the wall.

Yet, what she ended up with was rejection and animosity, driving her further away from her goal than she had ever been. And she needed to fix it ASAP. There was only so much her superiors would put up with before they decided to get someone else involved, someone who, in their opinion, might be better suited for the task, but Amanda Waller had not spent several decades of her life doing her damned best to keep peace here to simply hand over her victories to anyone else and walk away.

The problem was, she was running out of time.

Ice cubes clinked softly in her glass when Waller lifted it to her lips and took a small sip, aware of the burning trail the alcohol would leave in her throat. It was almost midnight and the hallways outside of her office had been quiet for hours. She couldn't bring herself to leave though, not yet. She needed to find a way to get Steve Trevor to cooperate – of them all, she suspected, he was the only one without a personal grudge against her. Or, at the very least, it was not supposed to be a big one. She needed to get him on her side, find a way to cooperate with him. If her intel on the nature of his relationship with Wonder Woman was correct – and she suspected that it was, based on both of their reactions on the day Waller brought him in – then he was her best hope.

And if that failed… Well, there should be a way to make him compliant, she figured. They did, after all, had an agreement, which essentially made him a property of the Government of the United States, but she didn't want to use it against him unless she absolutely had to. Which, truth be told, was more likely to happen than not.

Waller chose not to think of how his girlfriend might take it yet.

A knock on the door gave her a start, making her hand jerk so that a few drops of an ember liquid spilled on the papers spread out in front of her.

"Yes?" Waller snapped, frowning at the slight nervous uptilt in her voice.

The door opened a crack and a tech whose name she never bothered to learn poked his head into her office. "Director?" He adjusted the glasses that kept sliding low on his nose.

"Yes?" She repeated coolly.

"We have a problem."

She almost laughed at that. Of course, they did. When was the last time they didn't? It only seemed like a logical ending to her already shitty day. She stifled it though, her frown deepening momentarily.

"What is it?" She demanded when the man didn't say anything else.

He crossed the room, walking over to her desk and the extended his clenched fist to her and opened it. On the palm of his hand were a few small pieces that looked like—

Waller pressed her lips into a tight line.

"Bugs," she muttered.

The man cleared his throat. "These were found on the first level. We are scanning the whole building now."

"How?" She snapped, eyes drilling into a tech who seemingly shrunk under her glare.

"We are checking the security footage—" he started.

"Nobody leaves until the building has been cleared," Waller stopped him.

He nodded. "Yes, Director."

When the door closed behind him, Waller leaned back in her chair and let a long breath through her nose, trying to clam blind rage rising inside of her.

"Bruce Wayne."

xoox

"Thank you."

Perched on the kitchen counter and wearing nothing but her panties and Steve's button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up half to her elbows, Diana watched him rummage expertly through the freezer, searching for the stash of ice-cream that she knew Alfred always kept for her visits.

Her gaze followed the defined lines of his arms, the taut muscles of his back, lingering on the dimples that disappeared into the waistline of his jeans riding low on his hips. She bit her lip, trying to swallow a smile, and vowed silently to try and get him to be shirtless – or, better yet, naked – more often. Why on Earth was he even allowed to cover a body like this was beyond her.

She had always found Steve attractive but missing him somehow intensified it to a point where she could barely keep her hands off of him. Their relationship had never been about physicality, per se. Their connection running deeper than just sex. Diana was in love with him, she cared about him in a way she had never cared about anyone else. She missed him achingly whenever they were apart even for a brief period of time. However, it didn't hurt that she found him handsome as well, reminding her of the pictures of ancient gods from the books that filled row upon row of shelves in the library on Themyscira. Lean muscles and easy grace.

And right now, she certainly enjoyed it.

Steve glanced up at her, his eyebrow quirked and his face puzzled. His hair was tousled comically after the past few hours that they had spent reminding one another unapologetically and a with as much fervour as they could muster just how really and truly well they fit in every sense Diana could think of.

"Huh?"

"For today," she clarified, her hands gripping the edge of the counter, her legs crossed at the ankles. "I don't believe I said this. I should have."

He grinned at her. "I believe you did."

"Not in words," Diana pointed out, her head tilted ever so slightly.

"Ah-ha!" Victorious, he pulled a pint of ice-cream from the back of the freezer – Alfred's attempt to keep the other members of the League from so much as looking at it, which Diana found amusing to no end, considering that they all knew better than to even try. "You were very convincing in other ways," Steve promised, moving toward her.

It was past midnight, the house around them dark and quiet. For fear of disturbing anyone else, they chose to forgo turning on the overhead light, sticking instead to a smaller lamp over the stove that cast a warm glow around them while the corners of the kitchen remained drowned in shadows. Hunger, as it turned out, was a force to be reckoned with, and while skipping dinner in favour of far more exciting activities wasn't nowhere near Diana's list of regrets, a late-night snack seldom was a bad idea.

Steve stopped in front of her, his elbow brushing against her leg, and just like that the familiar warmth stirred in her belly as it often did even at the small touches that punctuated their routines. It amused Diana beyond measure that he would barely even look at her in the presence of the other members of the League because it was 'unprofessional' to be 'personal' in front of them, which, consequently, only made her want to put her hands all over him even more.

But there was no one else here now, Alfred and the rest of them fast asleep, and when Steve was within her reach, she draped her arms around her neck and reeled him closer, watching his eyes widen as she did so.

He was a damn good spy, and even though she might have been a little biased in her assessment, Diana was certain that she had never met anyone better. With or without her, he still singlehandedly obtained the intel to stop the Great War. With or without her, she knew that he would still go against the orders of his superiors to save the lives of innocent people. With or without her, she was sure, he would have still climbed into that airplane. He wasn't just good. He was excellent.

And yet, there was something intoxicating in knowing that he could barely ever hide his feelings when it came to her, in seeing the desire in his eyes even when he didn't mean for it to show.

"Oh, other ways," Diana echoed. "Yes, of course."

"I like other ways," he promised to her. "I like them a lot."

"Good to know," she murmured, touching her mouth to his, reminded pleasantly of the moment several hours ago when he peeled her clothes off her body only to reveal the same black set underneath them that she wore on the night they went to Metropolis, thin lace clinging so close to her skin that it was hard to tell where one ended and the other one began.

Diana watched him stare at her, slack-jawed and more than a little desperate, drinking her up as his eyes moved down her body and then back up, his rather undignified gaping making her want him even more. His need was so raw she could feel it in her core. And she promised to herself to wear something like that more often. Every day, if she could. If only to have Steve look at her the way he did tonight. She was quite adamant to make it happen for as long as he would let her.

"So, about that story that I was trying to tell you when we were so rudely interrupted," he started, drawing away from her. One hand still resting on her hip, Steve pulled open a cutlery drawer near her left thigh, fumbling for cutlery.

"You mean, when our clothes fell off?" She teased, one of her arms still slung over his shoulder.

"Hey, an interruption is an interruption," Steve brandished a spoon in her direction, and Diana laughed. "And they didn't just… _fall_ off."

"Yes, I remember you being very diligent with removing those that didn't," she told him with as much seriousness as she could muster.

"God," Steve exhaled and rubbed his eyes. "Don't," he said, pointing at her. "Don't do that."

"What?" Diana asked innocently, her fingers running absently along the base of his neck.

"You know what," he grumbled.

She raised her hands up, biting her lip so she wouldn't burst out laughing. She took a breath. "Okay, I'm sorry. Please, keep going."

He regarded her suspiciously, but then only shook his head.

 _I have never loved him more_ , she thought, watching him, her lips pressed together around a smile.

"So, a week after I get deployed and come to London, I go to this bar around the corner," Steve continued from the moment where they had left off when something far more appealing became a priority. "The kind of place where you go looking for trouble."

He twisted the lid off the ice-cream tub.

"Were you looking for trouble?" Diana asked, curious.

He chuckled. "No, I was looking for a drink and didn't know any better." He passed another spoon to her. "So, I walk in, and there's a brawl over… At the time, I had no idea what it was over, to be honest, but it was messy and loud, and apparently it was all a fault of one particular man who no one could find." He let out a short laugh. "You know why? Because he was hiding under a woman's skirt."

A spoon reaching for ice-cream, she paused and looked at him. "You're joking."

"Honest to god truth."

She blinked, a mental image wild in her mind, and then laughed, having to clasp her hand over her mouth not to wake anyone up.

"And _that_ is how you met Sameer?" She asked.

Steve smirked and offered her a half-shrug. "And that is how I met Sameer. The bravest man I've ever known was hiding under a skirt. And doing damn fine down there."

She was shaking her head now. "Lucky Sammy."

"Poor woman," he corrected. "She turned out being the owner's wife, and he was not pleased with any of that. Not the fight and certainly not a strange man getting closely acquainted with his wife's undergarments."

"I can't believe it," she muttered.

Diana knew about their first mission together, knew the story of them meeting Chief, and a million small moments in-between, but this… How Steve failed to mention something this impossibly entertaining was beyond her.

"As it turned out, I was the only person there not after his head," Steve added, trying to swallow back his own laughter. "Sammy lost a game of cards and couldn't pay up, and talking his way out of it didn't work out, so…"

"What happened?"

"I had to grab him and run, or they'd probably come for his blood." There was fondness in his voice that made Diana's chest constrict. "We'd been inseparable since."

He had to be feeling it too, she was thinking now. The dread and exhaustion of watching everyone he loved die. A slight crack in his voice when he mentioned their names, the wistfulness in his gaze. She saw them too for they reflected her own.

"You do know how to find trouble, Steve," she noted nonetheless, her heart full and her chest tight with affection.

He grinned at her. "You should know."

Diana hummed, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She was not going to argue, all things considered.

"This is delicious," she said, taking a bite of ice-cream.

Heavens bless Alfred for remembering about her weakness. He didn't have to, and she would never have asked – not at Bruce's home where he already allowed his comfort to be disturbed for the sake of the League. Which only deepened her gratitude towards the older man.

"I'm glad you're so easy to please," Steve noted.

Her eyebrow arched. "Am I, now?"

He scooped some ice-cream with his spoon and lifted it up to her lips. She licked it clean without breaking the eye contact as she watched his smile slip and his eyes turn dark. Her stomach tightened, heat starting to simmer in her veins. His hand that still rested on her side flexed, fingers digging into her skin through the thin cotton of the shirt she was wearing.

Diana's hand curled over the side of his neck. She uncrossed her ankles and pulled him to her until he was standing between her parted knees. The warmth of his mouth against her cold tongue sent a shiver down her spine, a low sound of appreciation rising in the back of her throat. He tasted of vanilla and caramel and want, and she was drunk on it, on the feeling of him, on the heat of his body under the palms of her hands.

" _You_ are trouble, angel," Steve murmured.

"Sorry," she breathed.

"You're not."

She smiled against his lips. "Not really, I'm not."

His hands clenched the fabric of her shirt, tugging her close, and Diana thought absently that this was exactly how they ended up without any dinner in the first place. Or lunch, if she recalled correctly. Somehow, somewhere along the way, Steve Trevor had turned entirely into her sole sustenance, and she was in no hurry to have it any other way.

Her hand closed over his jaw, tilting his face up, her body responding to his touch on its own volition.

"Diana…" he started, a warning in his voice, when she buried her fingers in his hair, bowing down to kiss him properly.

"There's no one here-"

"Ohmigod!"

A yelp caused Steve to jerk away from her so fast that they both nearly tumbled down to the floor, his hand flailing to grab the marble counter to catch his balance. His blood flowing in earnest and his heart thudding in a panicked frenzy, he turned to the door to find Barry standing there, his mouth agape.

He was wearing flannel pajama bottoms with a yellow duck print and a loose _Lord Of The Rings_ t-shirt, a pair of massive headphones sitting on his head like a perfect finishing touch. His eyes were cartoonishly wide as his gaze slid over Steve's bare chest and an endless expanse of Diana's legs peeking from under the hem of the shirt that she barely bothered to button properly, at which point his face turned scarlet red.

He looked away quickly. "Oh my god," he repeated. "I'm so sorry."

"Barry," Diana started, her smile sympathetic.

"I'm sorry," he stuttered. "I didn't hear you." He yanked the headphones off, and by now even the tips of his ears were crimson. "I—I didn't think anyone was here, this late."

"Really… sorry about that," Steve grimaced.

"No, no, it's cool." Barry's gaze darted for a second toward them, and then snapped away just as fast. "I was just—I thought I'd have a snack, because there's no such thing as a bad time for a snack." He paused, looking mortified, "Except there is, apparently. And it's not good for you, anyway. I think. Eating late, that is. So…."

"It's not—" Steve looked toward Diana's his eyes pleading. "We were just-"

"Never mind," Barry interjected, nodding more to himself than for their benefit. "I'm just gonna…" He started toward the balcony, then stopped abruptly. "Wrong way." Steve had never seen anyone put this much effort into avoiding looking at something. The Flash turned on his heel. "I'll see you later."

"Barry," Diana tried again, her voice kind, but he was already gone in a whoosh of wind that left a faint smell of ozone and a few sparks of electric discharge behind.

Steve let out a sharp breath and scrubbed his hands over his face, pushing his fingers into his hair. His shoulders slumped forward.

"I'll go talk to him," he said.

Diana's hand curled over his arm. She shook her head, finally tearing her gaze away from the dark doorway and turning to Steve. "I don't think he's going to talk to you now. Better give him some space, perhaps."

A flash of doubt rippled across his face as he debated her words, and for a moment, she thought that he was going to argue, but then he stepped back toward her. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching her features soften.

"Do you think we broke him?" He asked, his voice miserable and his face matching Barry's red suit.

"He'll be fine," Diana promised, shaking her head a little and trying very, very hard not to laugh. "I'll talk to him in the morning."

"No, I'll do it," Steve sighed.

Her eyebrow quirked. "Because you're a man?"

His lips twitched a little. "Because he has a hero-worship thing going on for you," he explained. "He probably won't even hear a word you'll say. He'll just… stare."

She rolled her eyes a little. "That is not true."

"Just—just trust me on this," he shook his head, feeling her hand rest on the nape of his neck.

"It's not like he doesn't know about those things," Diana whispered, scratching her nails through his hair.

A strangled sound formed in the back of Steve's throat. "Oh God…."

"He has a girlfriend…" She continued, then paused and corrected herself, "A _lady friend_. Iris. He is not very fond of discussing his personal life."

"And now he is all too aware about ours. Besides, it's not the same," Steve muttered, wincing. "Hell, it's like walking in on your parents-" He stopped abruptly and dropped his forehead on her shoulder with a groan. Another mental image that he didn't need. "Not that we're his…" he added, mortified. "I need to stop talking now."

He scrunched his face and Diana rubbed a soothing hand over his back.

"We weren't doing anything," she pointed out.

"We were," he protested. "Sort of."

"It was only a kiss."

"I don't think it matters," he said, his voice muffled and pained.

Diana pressed her lips to the crown of his head.

"Steve."

He looked up at her, his cheeks still flushed.

"I think we need take this party back to your room," he offered. "Just to be safe. In case someone else wakes up to get a glass of water, or… I don't know." He rubbed his eyes.

She bit her lip, studying him for a few moments and he felt his stomach drop.

"What?" He asked, lowering his hand.

Diana's eyes flicked between his.

"I have to go back to Paris at the end of the week," she said.

He blinked, momentarily confused by the sudden change of subject. Weren't they just about to discuss some sort of obligatory therapy for the Flash? He could even think of a few ways to foot the bill to Bruce.

Her words sunk in slowly.

 _Paris_.

"Oh."

It wasn't like Steve didn't see it coming.

Diana had spent every morning this past week going through her emails and making phone calls and arranging video chats, digging through electronic catalogues that her assistant kept sending her – _damn him_ – and signing forms and permits and other things that Steve didn't entirely understand. She had a whole life to go back to.

The only problem was that Paris was far away from Gotham. Very far away, in fact.

Was she even coming back?

For a moment, he imagined being here without her, in this house that looked like an aquarium – according to Barry, who appeared to have strong opinion about glass walls – having to endure heavy silences that tended to hang between him and Bruce Wayne.

The prospect was dreadful.

Maybe he should just leave, too. Find a place in the city-

For one unbearable moment, Steve remembered with startling accuracy what waking up without her for the past several decades had been like, his chest aching from missing her already.

"There is an exhibition coming up," Diana added, watching him, and he tried not to let his disappointment show, knowing that he was failing spectacularly. "Pierre would have a heart attack if I'm not there. And some other things that I need to take care of, on top of that. Like the recovered painting. I requested for it to be sent to the Louvre for proper assessment before we return it where it belongs." Her fingers smoothed down his hair before her hands came to rest on his cheeks, framing his face. "And I also thought that maybe you and I could have some alone time."

Steve stared at her. "Alone time?" He repeated dumbly.

Her gaze darted toward the dark hallway. "I love them, but it can be a little hectic here, no?" He nodded absently, his eyes never leaving her face. Diana turned to him. She traced the line of his jaw with her thumb. "Would you like to come with me?"

"To Paris?" He clarified.

She smiled. "I mean, you don't have to-"

"Would you want that?" He interjected before she went any further. She could have asked him to move to Neptune, and he would have followed her gladly and without a single question asked. "Would you want me to go with you?"

Diana's smile widened, blossoming into something entirely majestic.

She nodded. "I would want that very much."

 **To be continued...**

* * *

 **A/N:** Welp, this was fun and I hope you enjoyed this part! I promise you there will be actual plot soon lol I just want to enjoy fluff for a while! Feed back is awesome and I will love you forever for it!


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